Worth It?
by Tara Walden
Summary: When you have nothing left, who wouldn't give anything to try to fix it?
1. Cold

**Okay, so this is an idea I've been tossing around for a while. It's a sequel to my one-shot _A Single Tear_. **  
**I kept debating about whether or not I should leave well enought alone or if I should continue.  
After much debate, I decided upon trying to continue it, but I lost the story for a while.  
****When I found it again, I couldn't remember what my ideas for the sequel had been so I started brainstorming.**  
**As it turns out, I stuck upon an idea that I haven't seen done in any of the King Arthur stories that I've read and I decided, hey, why not?**

**You don't necessarily have to read _A Single Tear _to understand this one, but it does help understand background and basic things like who I'm talking about at first.**

**So here is chapter one of my story _Worth It?_ It starts off immediately after where _A Single Tear_ finished. It is a short chapter, but it's really more of a prologue. **

**Hope you enjoy! ^_^**

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Chapter 1: Cold

The woman wakes with a start, stiff and cold. She's sitting in their tree, the fact that the sun is not yet out making it colder still. The cold matches her frozen heart well, she realizes. With a grim nod, she accepts this truth. If he cannot be here, she will stay frozen, untouched by everything.

He is gone. Gone. And there is nothing that can be done by her or anyone.

But just as this thought crosses her mind, so does yet another. She can do nothing. That much is true, but there is one. Perhaps… Perhaps he can.

A man known for his magic and skill. Yes. She will go to him. She shall go to him and beg for his help. He must help her. He must, for if she does not… If he cannot, she shall surely lose her will to live. With these thoughts circling through her mind, she begins to pack her saddle bags and prepare her horse.

The sun is barely breaking through the gloom when she dons her armor and loads her weapons onto her horse. After taking one last inventory, she climbs onto the fine horse.

Without so much as a last glance at her home of one and thirty years, she urges her horse forward. After all, there is nothing here for her. All lies in her destination.

Briton. That is where she must go. Her quest? To find the Merlin.

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**Anyone have any theories yet? I'd love to hear them. Who knows? Maybe there is a Sherlock Holmes among you.**

**I'll try to update soon.**

**~Kanae~**


	2. What if

**Okay, as promised, the next chapter**

**Enjoy!**

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Chapter 2: What if…

It has been months, but now she is only minutes from the end of her long journey.

She looks down at her normally strong wrists now abnormally thin. They look like a child's wrists, yet they are her own. Gaunt from scarcity of food. She had run out nearly three months ago and had been having to scrounge.

Soon, though, it would not matter. Soon she would be there. She would speak to the Merlin, talked about in whispers by the former Sarmatian knights that had already done their service for Rome. Merlin could set things right.

She spurs her horse to go just a little faster, anxious to arrive, but upon reaching the top of a hill, she can't help but stare in awe. Hadrian's Wall. It's enormity almost frightens her, but she cannot afford to falter now. Not when she is so close.

Within a mile of the wall, she hears shouts, then the gates open, and two riders come out to meet her.

She slows her horse to a halt and the two horsemen do the same once within stone-throwing distance.

"Be you friend or foe?" shouts one, his long blond hair falling over his shoulders, his armor glistening in the sunlight.

"Pray for your sake the answer is friend or you'll taste cold steel!" shouts the other, his whole frame bulky and rather intimidating. She has no doubt that these men will make good on this threat.

But she quickly realizes that she has no reason to fear, for they are her own kind.

Suddenly glad that Galvin had taught her the language of Rome, for these men have not spoken in the language of her ancestors, she cries out to them in a loud voice,

"I am Sarmatian. I am a friend. I mean you no harm."

The blond man turns to his fellow rider. "Bors, I believe you have threatened a woman. A beautiful Sarmatian woman at that, if my eyes do not deceive me. I told you they exist."

"Aye. I suppose you did," his companion replies, clearly not used to admitting that he is wrong.

The blond spurs his horse forward and turns to align himself and his horse beside her, the bulkier man following suite.

"Hello, milady," the blond greets. "I am sorry if we frightened you."

"You didn't," she says, and the men see a sneer cross her face much like that of one of their old friends. Clearly, she is disgusted at the notion that they had frightened her.

"Woah! What have we here?" questions the other man, Bors. She turns to see what has caught his attention. It takes no time at all to realize he has spotted the sword on her back and the quiver full of arrows that is strapped to her horse's saddle, resting at her knee, the bow hung on the quiver.

The bulky man looks at her with a new, strange look, something between disbelief and confusion. "Why are you carrying all these, woman?"

She straightens pridefully in her saddle, her mahogany curls being slightly lifted by a gentle breeze wafting by.

"My name is not 'woman'. It is Iseult, and I carry these weapons because I am a Sarmatian warrior."

The blond raises his eyebrows at his companion as if to suggest that he should ask another stupid question and get himself killed before looking to the woman and smiling warmly.

"My name is Gawain, and as you may have gathered, my friend here is Bors. I am certain that he meant you no insult. We are simply not accustom to female warriors."

"Speak for yourself, Gawain. My Vanora is a fighter," Bors grins wolfishly.

Gawain rolls his eyes and then looks once more to Iseult.

"Please excuse my friend. He can be crude at times. He obviously doesn't know the difference between what is okay to speak of in the company of men, and what is polite in the company of women."

She laughs loudly, the sound short and harsh. She has not laughed in some time she realizes with a frown.

"He does not bother me. I'm sure I have heard worse in my village."

They look at her, clearly bemused but say nothing more of it.

"What is your business here?" Gawain questions, bright blue eyes curious.

"To visit the place of my friend."

"Who is your friend? Maybe Gawain knows her?" asks Bors with a wink.

"Him. My friend is Tristan. Tristan Drust."

Their faces fall instantly as a horrible memory returns to them. Blood. Blood and death. There was nothing they could do. Nothing.

"I hate to tell you this, Iseult, but Tristan—"

"Is gone. I know."

She cannot bring herself to say dead, but they realize what she means.

"Then why are you—"

"To visit his grave." _And possibly fix things _are the words she leaves unspoken.

"Well, then," Bors begins, tone suddenly that of one who has lost much.

He sends the horse into a canter, leaving Gawain and Iseult there without another glance.

Gawain looks to her sadly before jerking his head in the direction of the wall.

"Follow me. I'll get you to him."

Without another word, he nudges the horse with his foot, signaling for the beautiful creature to start forward; Iseult does the same, riding alongside his horse.

"You were his friend?" she asks, but it's not really a question. Just a statement left open-ended to continue the conversation.

"Yes. He was my friend and he was my brother," he says a grim smile on his face quickly replaced once more by curiosity. "But if you don't mind me asking, how do… did you know him?"

"I am of the same village as he."

"And that has brought you to look for him?" he questions, raising an eyebrow doubtfully.

She shakes her head, her hair falling into her face. She tucks it behind her ear before she answers him.

"No. Tristan was my friend. My only friend."

"I see. I'm sorry. You must miss him."

"I have missed him every day for fifteen years, and now… Now I shall miss him for longer.

'_But maybe not much longer_,' she can't help but think.

"As I said. He was our brother. Almost always silent, but every one of us knew that if we needed help or someone to listen to us talk, he was always there to help or offer witty one-liners that made you wonder why you came to talk to him to begin with," he laughs obviously remembering one such experience, but then his face darkens again. "I cannot count how many times he helped us, saved one of us from some Woad or other danger, yet… When he needed our help… Well… All we could do was bury him."

"I'm sure he wouldn't blame you."

He lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, much like her own earlier.

"No. You're probably right there. Tristan never did let anyone but himself take the blame for his decisions. I remember once, he was up in a tree with two of us below, there to catch him if he fell. And right as he was on the last two branches he did fall, but for some reason, we were unable to catch him. We never did find out if he was hurt, but he told us to stop apologizing because it was his own fault that he lost his damn footing."

She can't help but smile at the story Gawain told.

"He's been like that for as long as I can remember," she says, a small smile spreading across her face. She pauses as they pass through the gates, and then continues. "One day, he was teaching me archery, or was trying to anyway, and somehow, when I loosed an arrow, it grazed his arm. I immediately began apologizing, but he just shook his head, cursed once, and said he shouldn't have been standing where he was."

She glances over to see the man smile. Just sharing these memories made it seem like Tristan was there. She could almost imagine him rolling his eyes and saying that they were chattering like two old women.

"He was definitely different than most people."

Iseult looks ahead to see Bors stopped and dismounting. She examines the area quickly, scanning. There are so many burial mounds. Some with swords marking them, and some without.

And in the midst of them, she sees it, and immediately dismounts, not even bothering to tether the horse anywhere.

She walks to the burial mound, almost timidly.

A curved blade stands in the ground, and she knows, with neither Bors nor Gawain telling her, that she is standing in front of his grave.

The sword had been his father's and his grandfather's and his great-grandfather's, passed down for generations to every Sarmatian warrior in his family line. Every one of them had managed to come back and produce a male heir. And here it ends. Here in the cold ground lies the last of the Drust family. Tristan had no older or younger brothers. He didn't even have any sisters. He, like Iseult, had been orphaned at a young age. He was the last of his family. The last.

And here he is, buried in the snowy ground.

Once more, she sinks to her knees, overwhelmed by everything finally sinking in entirely.

_What if the Merlin can't fix it? What if… What if… this is it? What if…_

Suddenly, she realizes that more than a single tear has fallen.

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**Okay. How many people caught the double meaning with that last line? **

**I'm not sure if I pulled it off, but I was alluding to two meanings. **

**Meaning 1. More tears were falling.**  
**Meaning 2. Tristan is a fallen 'soldier' therefore he can also be considered as having fallen.**

**Just thought I'd throw that out there so that you all will have some insight into the strange workings of my mind.**

**I'll try to update soon. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	3. Weary

**I don't really have anything to say here for this chapter. I think the title of it speaks well enough.**

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Chapter 3: Weary

Gawain and Bors exchange weary looks before returning their gazes to the silently crying woman. The cold wind that warns of nightfall's approach is beginning to pick up, blowing her hair around her. With her armor on and her brown hair moving around her, she looks surreal, like some warrior goddess of the hills, mourning a great warrior.

'It is a sad scene indeed,' Gawain can't help but think as he and Bors look at her miserably.

Neither he nor Bors can help but draw parallels between their fallen brother and this woman, who had been his friend long before either of them knew him.

From what they had seen, she wasn't quite as reserved as the scout had been, but she certainly wasn't what either of them would call 'chatty'.

Then there was the sneer of disgust she had given them when Gawain apologized for 'frightening' her. They had indeed seen that before, several times, on the face of the silent scout. One such time had been when he had said those words that they found so true looking back.

'_Yeh, yeh. We're all going to die some day. If it is a death by Saxon hands that frightens you_' he sneered at no one in particular, simply at the general idea of fear, '_stay home_.'

She also seems just as opposed to showing weakness to others because, even now, she sits with her back to them. The only sign of her crying is that a sob would wrack her frame from time to time.

After a few moments, Bors turns away and walks to the grave of another fallen brother, but Gawain can't take his eyes off of her. He realizes that he can no longer simply stand there. He must do something.

So wrapped up in her own grief and fears is Iseult that she jumps and spins, dagger in hand when his hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Her reddened eyes take in the sight of Gawain, hand having been withdrawn and held with the other out at his sides, showing he meant her no harm.

'Quick with a dagger, just like him. I can tell he taught her,' he thinks sadly.

Immediately, she forces herself to relax and turns back as she had been before he came over, returning the dagger to its sheath.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, the sound barely loud enough for him to hear.

He joins her on the cold ground, sitting with one leg stretched out before him, the other bent so that he can rest an arm on it.

"It's alright. No harm done."

For several moments, neither speaks, but then her voice, distant, breaks the silence.

"How did he fall?"

Gawain shifts nervously. How much should he tell her? Warrior or no, she is still a woman.

"Don't try to spare me images. I want to know how he fell," she says, answering his unspoken question with not so much as a glance at him, her voice cold and emotionless.

'So much like him,' he thinks, before trying to choose his words tactfully.

"He fell to Cerdic, the Saxon leader and king. The filthy creature had run his sword arm through with a dagger. He fell and the Saxon pulled him up. Tristan didn't just give up, though. He fought bravely, even at the end when he must have known that..." he pauses and shakes his head, restarting. "He yanked the Saxon knife from his arm and thrust it into Cerdic's leg with what must have been the last of his strength. Cerdic used Tristan's own sword to kill him."

"How?" she asks, her voice still sounding as if she is far, far away.

Once more, he shifts nervously. _Don't try to spare me images. I want to know how he fell._ She has a right to know everything.

"Cerdic used Tristan's sword to cut his arm and then stab him through his side as he held him up. Tristan arched back, looking at the sky and I think he had started to breathe his last breaths right then… Arthur turned to see Cerdic holding Tristan up, our brother's head bowed. When Cerdic saw that Arthur was watching, he spun and used his momentum to pull Tristan into a standing position, then delivered the finishing blow, right where the neck and shoulder meets, straight down to his collarbone. When Arthur reached them, Tristan was…" he stops once more, trying to gather his composure and starts again, "Arthur fought and killed Cerdic, but it was too late to save Tristan."

She had watched it play out in her mind, never seeing the face of either Tristan or Cerdic, just the movements. She frowns realizing that she doesn't even know what he looked like at the time. All she knew was the quiet boy with the watchful brown eyes who had befriended her, protected her, trained her. She knew nothing of this scout, this man who Gawain said had fought Death itself but lost the battle.

"What did he look like?" she questions, eyes closed.

He looks puzzled a moment before he realizes that the last she would have seen him was when he was not yet a man, only sixteen at the oldest. He cannot help but feel the guilt start to rise up again, and he tries, for her, to find words to describe his brother.

"He was tall, easily six foot with broad shoulders and tanned, weathered skin. He was strong, but not as heavy built as Bors. Closer to my build. He had a beard… He… He let his hair grow to his shoulders and he would have three or four warrior's braid throughout, to keep the most unruly strands in check, I suppose… He always looked watchful, like his hawk, always looking out for us, protecting us from things that none of the rest of us could see until they showed themselves… And then, a few times, I would see him sitting off by himself, seeming as though he weren't really there at all, but was somewhere else... That's all I can think of really."

She sits for a moment longer, eyes closed, trying in vain to picture the man Gawain had described before his hand is on her shoulder again.

"It grows late. We should get you to the villa. I am sure we can find somewhere you might stay," he says gently, hating to pull her from whatever thoughts she had been having.

She nods and opens her weary brown eyes, tired from her travels and her loss, and she stands, Gawain doing the same. Without a word, for he knows no words could comfort her or ease her pain right now, Gawain offers her his arm.

She almost argues, almost straightens pridefully once more and tells him that she is not some grandmother or fragile little girl who needs his arm, but she sees the compassion on his face and stops herself. She knows it would hurt him greatly, and she could not bring herself to do it after he and his friend had been so nice to her. Had brought her to him. So, she swallows back her pride, her warrior's independence, and links her arm in his.

She allows him to lead her back to her horse, and even to help her up without a bit of protest from her, while Bors climbs onto his own horse. Once satisfied that she is safely seated on her horse, Gawain mounts his own steed and the world-weary group starts toward the villa, each with their own private thoughts occupying them.

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**Well? Any comments? I have to admit... This was a hard chapter for me to write.**

**I just kept imagining what it was like for both Iseult and all the knights.  
I had to get in their minds and really try to feel what they would because I didn't want this to seem forced or fake.  
I wanted the emotions to be genuine and to really shine through, make the characters more human.**

**I don't know if I achieved my goal or not, but I really liked how Gawain and Iseult interacted. **

**Obviously, this chapter was sad, I'd say probably even more so than the first two, but I hope it was liked. **

**I will try to update again soon.**

**~Kanae~**


	4. Smile

**^_^ Hope you enjoy this chapter. It's the longest one yet. 2, 119 words not counting the author's notes. :)  
Hope it makes up for the short absensce. **

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Chapter 4: Smile

Gawain and Bors had led Iseult into the villa and to the stables where Jols took their horses to stalls, but not before Iseult grabbed her bow and arrows, slung them over her shoulder, and removed a small leather pouch from her saddlebag, placing it in a compartment in her armor.

The two knights walking in front of her wonder briefly what is in the pouch before they wonder about a more interesting topic.

"How many knives you think she has hidden on 'er?" Bors asks Gawain in a hushed voice.

"At least one," he murmurs back. "But since he trained her, I'd bet on several more."

Gawain innocently glances at her from his peripheral vision. She's said less than five words since they'd left the cemetery. She looks so tired and her mind is obviously occupied elsewhere, but he doesn't doubt for a moment that she is subconsciously taking in every move the two knights— and everyone else in her vicinity— makes, or so much as thinks about making.

He quickly returns his attention to Bors.

"We're taking her to the tavern first, right? She looks half-starved," he whispers.

Bors gives him a discreet nod in reply.

It is at this point that Gawain looks over his shoulder at her.

"Iseult?" he says, getting her attention. "We're going to take you to the tavern to get you something to eat, alright?"

"You look like you could use some meat on yer bones," Bors jokes, trying to lighten the dark mood.

She looks at them both with a blank, disattached expression on her face, but nods, whether in agreement to Bors or in answer to Gawain was either's guess.

In no time, they arrive at the tavern, and immediately Bors leaves them to go see a woman with a pitcher of ale in her hand.

Iseult watches as the woman sets the pitcher down, slaps Bors, and then kisses him before he disappears into the kitchen.

Gawain looks at Iseult, "That is Vanora, the woman Bors was talking about earlier."

Iseult nods, clearly still not back in a talkative mood.

He can't help but sigh. Honestly, he isn't sure what to say to her, or even if there is anything he can say. She just looks so tired, so pale and fragile, as if any minute now, she might collapse of exhaustion.

Just when he's fixing to spout off some other random statement, he hears another voice.

"Who's this, Gawain?"

Immediately Iseult spins around, hand going to the hilt of her dagger but not drawing it. Instead she looks over the speaker. Brown curly hair and a bright smile, probably helped along a little by the alcohol she can smell on his breath.

"This is Iseult. Iseult, I'd like you to meet Galahad, another of the knights."

"Hello," she offers politely, not bowing or curtsying or showing any sign of greeting other than an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

Galahad's smile broadens, undaunted by her indifference. "Hello. 't's very nice to have met you."

And with that, he wanders back over to the table where he had previously been sitting.

"Galahad is the youngest knight that served with us," offers Gawain helpfully.

Once more, she merely nods.

There's a moment of awkward silence before Gawain remembers why they had brought her here to begin with.

"Here. Let's sit down over at this table and I'll get Vanora to bring you out some food. Anything in particular?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Whatever."

Gawain forces a smile and walks over to Vanora after making sure that everyone in the vicinity sees that she is here with Gawain. It's not the he is worried about any of the many drunks approaching her; he's more worried about what would happen to them if they did. Iseult is by no means slow about drawing any of her knives.

"Vanora?"

She turns from pouring some more ale to look at him, a smile on her face and a kind of mischievous gleam in her eye.

"What can I do for ya, Gawain?"

He looks toward the table he had left Iseult at and sees her fidgeting with a loose string on her tunic sleeve, clearly once more deep in thought. She must have sensed his stare, though, because she looks up at him questioningly before forcing a smile.

He nods back, satisfied that for the time being no one will bother her and looks back to Vanora.

"Did Bors tell you?"

Her eyebrows furrow as she glances at Iseult and then back to Gawain, an angry glint in her eyes.

"What'd he do?"

Now it's Gawain's turn to be puzzled. "Nothing."

"Then why did ya glance at the brown-haired lady over there?" she asks before smirking, a new idea dawning on her. "A new lady friend of yours?"

"Not exactly, but she is why I wish to talk with you. The woman, her name is Iseult, and she has travelled here all the way from Sarmatia by herself. From what I can tell, she probably hasn't eaten very much in quite some time."

Concern becomes evident in the tavern-keeper's eyes, her maternal instincts taking over. "Why would she travel so far alone?"

"She is a friend of Tristan's."

Immediately the woman looks crushed.

"The poor girl. Did you tell her?"

"I was going to, but somehow she already knew. She travelled all the way here to see his grave," he answers. He says nothing of how she cried at the grave. He knows that she would not appreciate anyone else knowing. She had trusted him and Bors enough to show a weakness in front of them and he refused to betray that trust.

Vanora's eyes soften even more.

"Poor girl," she repeats. "I'm going to fix her up something to eat. She's probably starving."

Having thus spoken, Vanora disappears into the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Iseult had finally gotten thoroughly annoyed with the loose string on her sleeve, simply pulled one of her knives, and cut it, all the time wishing the string was that bloody Saxon's neck.

He took him from her. How dare he? What right did he have? It's not like Tristan had volunteered to fight for Rome. He had no have a choice. To Romans, Sarmatians are nothing more than slaves. They are below the mongrels that roam the streets, less than dirt even.

She can't help but be angry. Angry at Rome for making him serve their ridiculous empire; at the Saxon for killing him; and at herself for not having come sooner.

As all of these thoughts and angry accusations fly on the inside, she remains impassive on the outside, the perfect mask of composure and calmness. Even as the pain and loss remerges, beating back her anger, she remains unmoved. No, the time for crying has passed and she must focus on why she had come here to begin with.

A plate of food and a cup of ale placed in front of her brings her back to the present, and she looks up to see a smiling Gawain.

"For you, milady."

She can't help but give him one tired smile in return. He really had been nothing but kind to her and when they left the graveyard, she had just retreated inside of herself, practically ignoring both he and Bors. A little guilt washes over her as she thinks back on her behavior.

Seeing her smile, exhausted and strained though it is, he takes it as a good sign that she is trying to be nice and sits across from her.

He watches her as she looks down at the plate of food. She seems uncertain for a moment and then takes a few tentative bites, but it doesn't take long before her hunger takes over. It is not long at all before she finishes and pushes the plate off to the side, noting the surprised look on the golden-haired knight's face.

She laughs despite herself, the laugh not quite as offensive to her ears this time but still rough.

"Never seen a lady clean a plate so quickly, have you?"

He has to laugh, too, just because this is the closest she's been to good humor since the graveyard.

"I have to say, I have not," he smiles before looking at her seriously. "How long has it been since you have had a good meal?"

She is silent for a moment, already straight-faced. "I ran out of rations several months ago and I've been having to search for food."

"I see."

"How much do I owe for the meal?"

"Vanora said that it's on the house."

He can tell immediately that she wants to object, but he sees her fight down the action and instead looks down at the table. She seems to be deep in thought suddenly and he can't help himself.

"What are you thinking?"

She looks up at him with a questioning gaze. "I was just wondering… Earlier, when I was sitting there at Tristan's grave… Bors walked over to another… If you don't mind me asking… Who was it?"

Gawain's gaze becomes heavy and tired once more. "His name was Dagonet. He and Bors were close. The best of friends, much like Galahad and I are. Dagonet was like an older brother or father figure to most of us, despite the fact that he was right around our ages. He was always level-headed. He kept all of us calm and from being at each other's throats. He was usually quiet, but when he thought that he needed to say something to avoid a fight or offer counsel, he would. Dagonet. He was a gentle giant in everyday life, but once you got him out on the battlefield he was a true warrior. Even on the battlefield or in situations of great distress, he always thought of his brothers first. That's how he died, you know. He saved all of us, and he paid the ultimate price for it."

"Then he should return as a great horse," she states sadly.

"Yes. He should," smiles Gawain.

For several moments, quiet reigns at their table. Not an uncomfortable silence, but a silence none the less.

Unfortunately— or fortunately, depending upon your viewpoint— peace and quiet was not meant to be. No sooner than Iseult had looked up, Bors was already sat down and starting a conversation with Gawain.

Bors didn't leave the table until much later, when Vanora dragged him off, and by then, Iseult's eyes were half-closed, sleep trying to claim her.

'She must be exhausted,' thinks Gawain before gently touching her arm, trying to get her attention.

She doesn't jump or pull her knife. She had known what he was doing, even through her sleepy haze, and so she gives him her full, undivided attention.

"When I talked to Vanora earlier, she told me that most of the visitor's rooms are full but that there should be a few left empty so, if you are ready, we will go to find you a room to use for the duration of your stay."

"I am ready," she answers with a slight nod.

They stand and Gawain once more offers her his arm, and once more she fights back the urge to snap at him. It isn't as hard to do this time, hindered by politeness, acceptance that this is just his way, and total exhaustion.

Her arm linked in his, they walk out of the tavern.

It takes them quite a while to find a place with vacant rooms, but finally one is found and Gawain walks her to the door. She unlinks her arm from his and opens the door without delay.

Before going in, she turns to him and forces a smile.

"Thank you."

He says nothing, but smiles back and begins to walk off as the door starts to close.

"Gawain," her voice calls from behind him.

He turns to see Iseult leaning out the reopened door.

"Yes, milady?"

"The answer is twelve."

He looks at her quizzically for a brief second, and then four very distinct expressions cross his face: understanding, embarrassment, surprise, and, quite possibly, fear.

She smiles devilishly as she sees his comprehension and then re-enters her room, closing the door behind her.

Gawain continues to stare at the door a moment before shaking his head and walking off, heading for his own quarters.

* * *

**So, a little bit of humor there at the end? Maybe? I don't know. It's really up to you guys if you thought it was funny or not so... Whatever. ^_^**

**Alright... Getting down to business. Anyone like this chapter? Anyone hate it? Either way, I'd love to hear your opinions. :D**

**I'll try to update again soon. **

**~Kanae~**


	5. Private Battles

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Chapter 5: Private Battles

"You think I'm joking, lad, but she overheard Bors and I talking about our guess as to how many knives she had and answered me."

Galahad's amusement is evident by the sparkling light in his eyes and wide smile accompanied by hearty laughter that fills the nearly empty tavern.

"It's not a joke," Gawain insists, beginning to become slightly irritated with the boy.

"But you'd just told me that she was distracted, not to mention a little ways behind you on a busy street. How could she have overheard?"

"The same way I heard you," comes a voice immediately behind him.

He spins around to see the woman from last night of whom they had been speaking.

"And how's that?" he asks curiously.

"I have ears," she replies simply, sitting across from Gawain once more.

Galahad scowls the same way he would had Tristan said something of much the same effect to him, in what seemed, so long ago, but in reality was only a year and a half.

Seeing his face, Iseult smirks at Gawain, who laughs at both Galahad and the memories of Tristan's own similar retorts.

He had already told Galahad about Iseult's friendship with Tristan back when they were children, to which Galahad had nodded somewhat distractedly and changed the topic. From there, he isn't entirely sure how the conversation had gone from that to what it had been when Iseult had arrived, but he had been talking to Galahad after all.

Iseult watches silently as Galahad and Gawain begin to exchange one-liners. She can't help but get a distant look in her brown eyes. She never realized that she would miss his witticisms—his sharp, often dark and/or dry humor— but that is exactly what is happening now.

She is brought back to reality as the two knights cease their conversation and stand to greet someone. She turns in her seat to see a man with brown hair wearing Roman armor.

She glances at Gawain and Galahad and then back at the man as he walks closer. It doesn't take her long to put together that this man whom the knights greet so warmly is Artorius Castus— leader of the Sarmatian knights— and so she stands out of respect as well.

The man looks at her curiously before offering his hand to her, which she grasps firmly, in as close to a warm greeting as she is willing to attempt. Catching the intended message, the man shakes her hand.

"Hello. You are new here. My name is Artorius Castus, but I go by Arthur. Now, may I inquire as to who you are?"

Once more she straightens.

"I am Iseult, and I am a Sarmatian."

"A Sarmatian? What brings you here?" he asks, puzzled. He could honestly think of no reason for a free Sarmatian, a woman no less, to travel all the way to Briton.

"I came to visit a friend," she replies ambiguously, repeating what she had told Gawain and Bors yesterday.

Before Gawain or Galahad have a chance to signal him to stop, he asks his next question.

"Who is your friend? Perhaps I know them."

"I have no doubt that you did."

His look is once more confused.

" 'Did'?"

"Yes. 'Did'. He was one of your knights. Tristan Drust. I came here to visit his grave."

Arthur pales slightly, a sad look in his compassionate green eyes.

"I am very sorry. Tristan was one of the best scouts in Briton and my friend. He fought bravely in battle against Cerdic, the Saxon king, but he fell to him here at Badon Hill."

Even though Gawain had already told her this, she does not interrupt the man. She couldn't have even if she had wanted to for she was staring into two pools of sorrow. Pools that looked much too old to belong to the owner. Profound, ancient eyes.

"It is not your fault, so you should not apologize," she answers simply, slightly unnerved by his intense eyes, his intense stare. As if he suffered everyday for those who had died serving him.

He does not tell her that it is his fault. Doesn't tell her that if he had simply cut his opponents down faster, if he had run just a little faster, her friend might yet be alive. No, he does not tell her of his own private battles with nameless, faceless enemies who assault him with these thoughts either.

Instead, he simply nods sadly to her and then turns to his knights and asks them for some assistance with something. They agree and bid Iseult good day, leaving her standing there alone.

Honestly, she is overjoyed. She had thought she would never be able to get up. She had to though. She has to begin her search now. She has to.

* * *

**Well... Arthur has now officially been in the story... Ahem... Hm...  
Fairly certain that's all I have to say... Yeah...  
Reviews are much appreciated and I will try to update again soon. **

**~Kanae~**


	6. Hopeless

**Enjoy the chapter! :)**

* * *

Chapter 6: Hopeless

She had been searching most of the day, but she simply cannot find him. Where does the Merlin hide?

She finally finds herself by a stream at the edge of the forest, frustrated and angry. She had known it would not be easy to find him, but she had never dreamed it would be this difficult.

Unexpectedly, the ground rises up to meet her, and as she looks down to her feet; she realizes she had tripped over a rock no bigger than the size of her palm.

Finally reaching the end of her rope, she stands, picks the rock up, and pitches it as hard as she can into the stream, a large splash following.

Unable to hold it in any longer, she drops to her knees once more, folds in on herself, rests her head on her knees, and cries.

'It's hopeless,' she tells herself then speaks aloud. "I just need to accept the facts. I have come all this way for naught. He's gone. Even if I somehow find the Merlin, his magicks might do nothing! He might be naught more than a faerie tale the older knights told to us children to scare us," she spits, tears falling freely.

"What know you do of magicks?" comes a broken question from a ways behind her.

She spins, dagger ready and mentally berates herself for leaving her sword on her horse.

"Peace be to you, child. No harm of you is meant," says the voice again. This time, though, she can see the speaker. Dark hair, wild beard, and three triangle markings on his forehead.

"You are the Merlin," she breathes, lowering her dagger.

The wise-looking man nods before looking at her with saddened eyes.

"Of me you my magicks seek?"

Understanding him is difficult, but after thinking of what he had said, she realizes what he had asked her. Unable to force herself to speak, she simply nods instead.

"I am sorry, child. No more magick of me than there is of you."

"You lie," she says, no change in her face or her tone as she finds her voice. His eyebrows raise. "You may fool the others, but I can feel it rolling off of you. Magicks. Ancient wisdom. It surrounds you, is you. It permeates the very air, leaving it touched by these magicks, shimmering with power. You will deny this?"

He seems surprised, but then sighs and looks at her questioningly. "What wish you of me?"

"Merlin. My friend, my best, only, and dearest friend fell at the Saxon king's hand here at Badon Hill. Please. Please tell me there is some way, any way at all to reverse this fate. For him to be saved. Please, if there is any way, help me. For if there is not, I will straightway depart from this miserable existence."

The Merlin stares at her, his gaze a hundred, no, a thousand times more powerful than Arhur's stare.

"Child, of what you ask… it is much."

"You are my only hope! Whatever I must do, I shall not hesitate," she pleads desperately.

His eyes continue to bore into her own. His unfathomable eyes penetrating through to her very soul. Finally, he closes his eyes sadly and nods.

"You love him."

Iseult can say nothing to him. He is her last hope. If he decides not to help her or cannot…

"Of nothing I know for _you_ to do," he says and for her, times stops all around her except for what he now opens his mouth to say. "The course of fate is its own. To change outcome is hard to say, but think not I do not see your love for him. You, I know, would do what you could for him. Know this to you, of you I will help what you ask."

"Y-you will?"

He smiles kindly and nods.

"Few of today my magicks sense they. Fate must for you much in store have. Have you one chance. Too many times change of Fate is reckless, even once dangerous. But, you I will one chance give. If happening is not what you wish, it cannot be helped. One chance. Understand you?"

She nods fervently, a genuine smile spreading across her face. The Merlin returns it and then says,

"Have you good luck, child. May things turn them as you wish."

That said, he raises his staff into the air and then there is nothing.

* * *

**So? Who's curious? Haha. You'll all find out soon enough. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	7. Stare

**Hope you enjoy. ^_^**

* * *

Chapter 7: Stare

It has been months now since she had left her village to find him, but it is worth it. She is now no more than minutes from her destination.

She looks down at her normally strong wrists now abnormally thin. They look like the wrists of a child and yet, she knows them to be her own. She has become gaunt from scarcity of food and the pace of her journey, but it will not matter soon. Soon she will be with him. She had left the village just in time. This is the day his freedom should be given to him. Fifteen years. It has been such a long time.

She cannot help but wonder how much he has changed. What if she cannot recognize him? What if he does not recognize her?

As she spurs her horse to carry her just a little bit faster towards where he is, she pushes these thoughts from her mind. Upon reaching the top of the hill, she sees it. Hadrian's Wall. Its enormity fills her with wonder but she cannot pause now. Not when she is so close to seeing him once more.

The night sky is beautiful, even here, the gentle mists stirring about. The whole land looks as though enchanted. Green and beautiful. No wonder the natives fight so hard to have it back.

Within a half a mile of the wall, she hears a shout and the gates of the wall open, a lone rider coming out to meet her.

She slows her horse to a halt and the man does the same once close enough to speak.

"What station are you?" he asks, voice clear and strong.

Even though her night vision is excellent, the only thing she can truly make of the man is that he is huge and that he speaks in the language of Rome, but that it is not his first language.

"I am Sarmatian," she replies. "I mean no harm."

"What is your name, milady?" he questions, his voice softening considerably, his form relaxing slightly.

"My name is Iseult, and what of yours?" she smiles.

She could almost have sworn that he returns the smile before he replies, "Dagonet."

He spurs his horse forward and turns to align himself and his horse beside her, and it is then that she realizes how tall he really is.

She, herself, is considered quite tall being 5'11", but this man would easily tower over her.

"What is your business here?"

"I am visiting a friend."

He nods. "Well, if you will, follow me and I will get you inside the gates."

"Certainly."

Without so much as another word, they both ride towards the gates. Once inside, the gates close. She glances at them and then returns to looking straight ahead.

A little ways in, she catches sight of a hill with swords sticking out of the ground. Even as they pass, she can't help but turn slightly to look back at it.

Dagonet, having been watching the strange woman out of the corner of his eye, turns to see what has caught her attention and then looks forward again.

"The graves of knights who have died in service of Rome," he answers her unasked question.

She turns back and looks at him. Now that they grow closer to the torches, she can see the look in his eyes. Pain and loss. Pain and loss the likes she has never known. Pain at having lost many friends, maybe even family. His eyes are almost tortured looking and she looks away, feeling as if she has trespassed somehow.

The rest of the ride is silent. They pass through the opening of the village and then he slows his horse to a graceful stop, her following his example.

He turns to look at her as he begins to speak. "If you wish, you can follow me to the stables and from there I can walk you to the tavern so that you may eat."

She nods, grateful to the kind man, not nearly as wary as she would normally be when dealing with a stranger. She had learned early on in her village that very few people can be trusted, but for some reason, she feels that this man may end up to be one of those few.

Once more in silence, they ride to the stables, the man bringing her to the common stables before riding himself over to the stable that he had said is reserved for the knights.

She watches as he rides off, and then dismounts, leading her horse to an empty stall. Once done, she unsaddles and unbridles the wondrous creature and begins to talk to the mare while brushing her coat out.

"Yes. I am sure you are happy to be here also. Yeah. You've been a good girl, Mairete," she says, putting down some sweet hay and continuing to brush her as the horse eats.

"You can tell what kind of person someone is by how they care for their horses," comes a voice, startling her from her thoughts.

Her reflexes immediately kick in and she spins, dagger at the ready, but she relaxes when she sees the owner of the voice. Dagonet.

"I'm sorry. You startled me," she says, putting the dagger away.

"Not a problem. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

She picks up her small saddlebag, throws it over her shoulder, her other shoulder holding her quiver and bows.

She watches as the man's eyebrows raise and they begin walking.

"You said you are Sarmatian, yes?"

She nods in response.

His observant eyes take in her armor and her visible weapons: a sword on her left hip; a composite bow over her shoulder and two quivers, both full of arrows, one strapped at her waist, the other slung over her shoulder; and then there is the one knife that is visible. How many others she has hidden on her, he doesn't even dare guess.

She watches as he looks at her. There's nothing wrong with his gaze, not like those Romans who had stared at her as she and Dagonet had walked by them. The Romans had been appraising her lustily, just as she is certain they look at any other woman.

But Dagonet, his stare is merely the calculating gaze of a seasoned warrior, examining a potential threat.

'Good then, he does not trust me anymore than I trust him,' she smiles to herself.

She can't help but begin to examine him as well. A knife hidden in his right boot and a sword hung on a thick leather belt at his waist is all that she sees. He has already put most of his weapons away prior to coming to retrieve her from the stables then. She cannot help but observe, however, that his burly arms could easily be weapons in and of themselves, and with that realization comes another. He truly does tower over her. He must be at least 6'4", a giant among all the Romans who are generally much shorter. Why, even she would probably be taller than quite a few of them.

When he finally realizes that he has been staring at her in his knight mindset, he laughs.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to stare. I hope I didn't upset you."

A strangely familiar sneer crosses her face. "You did no such thing. I knew what you were doing."

He raises an eyebrow, silently asking her to continue.

"You were tallying my weapons. Probably trying to determine how many you cannot see as well."

"Very observant of you. Do you mind my asking why you carry them and why you wear such armor?"

"Not at all," she replies, straightening. "I am a Sarmatian warrior."

"I thought as much," he nods. "Well, seeing as you are carrying so much, I will show you to a spare traveler's room first where you may put your things down."

"Thank you," she replies, glad that she would not have to carry all of her equipment around with her.

As he walks in the direction of a group of buildings, she follows quickly, not wanting to be left behind.

* * *

**Okay, show of hands. Who thought I had messed up and posted the wrong chapter until Dagonet showed up? Did anyone catch the subtle differences in wording that I threw in?**

**Another show of hands. Who saw that coming?**

**I'll try to update again very soon. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	8. Freedom

**_THIS _is now officially the longest chapter. Six pages on Word document with TNR size 11 font. Hope you guys like it. ^_^**

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Chapter 8: Freedom

It doesn't take long for Dagonet to locate a room that the woman can use and he waits patiently outside as she goes in and shuts the door.

When she comes out only a few minutes from when she had gone in, she is no longer wearing her armor, giving him a good look at her clothing. A loose fit, long sleeve tunic that almost goes down to her knees with slits on each side, probably for ease of movement in battle and while horseback riding. The slits stop at the belt fastened around her waist, from which her sword hangs. Under the tunic, she wears somewhat loose breeches that tuck into her leather boots, which he can't help but notice have a few compartments in the tops of them. Yes. She definitely has some hidden weapons on her, probably knives. He can't see any of them that she surely has on her, a good sign that she knows what she's doing.

"Are you ready?" he asks, forcing himself from his observations.

She nods once more. "Yes."

He starts into a brisk walk and she follows, staying only barely behind him.

For lack of anything better to do at the moment and also due to her own warrior's observational instincts demanding to be used, she tries to take in some details about her guide. Tall, broad shoulders. Strong jawline. Really short cut hair and nothing more than stubble on his face. Tan tunic with long sleeves that tuck into black gauntlets almost reaching up to his elbows. There's also, of course, the sword that he is still carrying and the knife that is still hidden in his boot. Nothing new there, but even just walking, he seems as though he is tired. She cannot even imagine what he's been through.

Suddenly, she can't help but wonder if Tristan will be this way. Tired. Or will he be angry? Indifferent? Then terror grips her. What if he had fallen? What if he is one of the knights buried in that cemetery?

_No_. She would have known if he had died. She would have felt it. Wouldn't she?

"We're here," Dagonet's voice comes, breaking her from her morbid thoughts as he turns to look at her. "If you'll excuse me."

She nods and he walks off toward the bar where another man stands. He's a big, bulky man who looks oddly familiar, but she knows she has never seen him before in her life. No one could possibly forget that brick wall, right? And yet…

Suddenly, the brick wall pulls a woman holding a baby to the middle of the tavern and people start chanting 'sing, sing, sing' and someone else calls, 'sing of home'.

As soon as she begins her song, the whole place falls eerily silent, as if her voice puts a spell over everyone within reach of it.

Of course, home means nothing to Iseult as it is currently. Not without him.

So as the woman sings, she starts scanning the crowd for him, but what does he look like now? The last she had seen him, he was a boy of sixteen. He would certainly look much different now.

'_easily six foot with broad shoulders… beard… three or four warriors braids… unruly strands… watchful…'_

Where had that come from? It sounds so familiar, but where would she would have heard it from? Who had said it to her? Was it merely imagination?

And then all of these thoughts disappear as she sees him. It must be him. He is the only one in the crowd with their village's tattoos on his chiseled cheek bones, and, oddly enough, he matches the description perfectly.

She almost wants to cry. Not sad tears, but happy ones. She has found him.

He looks so different, yet so uniquely him. Shoulder length hair. Tanned weathered skin. Watchful eyes.

Suddenly, he looks up, his watchful eyes stopping when he makes eye contact with her. He sees her tattoos, her birthmark. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes widen and he raises a hand to rub them in disbelief.

He can't help but think he's drunk just a little too much ale. She can't possibly be here, can she?

He finally looks back up and realizes that, no, she can't be here. She is in Sarmatia, waiting for his return, or maybe she had even forgotten about him. The thought stings, but he knows it could be true. Whatever the case, though, she could not be here.

'Merely a trick of the ale. Nothing more,' he thinks, looking at the empty space where he thought he had seen her.

She watches from the shadows as he starts to cut more apple slices with his knife, eyes downcast and faraway looking.

How she wishes she could have run up to him right then, but she does not want to create a scene. Neither of them would have appreciated that. When she had seen her opportunity upon him reaching up to rub his eyes, she had moved quickly, yet without notice into the shadows and closer to a group of people. He would not see her here.

"Arthur!" yells a voice, breaking her from her thoughts. Then two more voices call out the same name and she turns to see a man with brown hair wearing Roman armor. His face, no, his eyes, look ancient, as if they'd seen too much, and she can't help but notice that they seem so out of place on his face.

He seems undecided in this moment, as if he wants to run far, far away, be anywhere but here; and yet, he also seems so horribly, horribly sad.

But, the knights do not see it and they walk to him with happy faces. All except two. Tristan, whose face is indifferent, and then another man with curly, dark brown hair. Maybe that man senses it.

"You're not completely Roman, yet, right?" asks one of them. By his face, he seems the youngest of the six.

"Knights. Brothers-in-arms. Your courage has been tested beyond all limits."

"Yes," the wall murmurs, nodding his head.

"But I must ask you now for one further trial," he begins and Iseult's eyes flash to Tristan worriedly.

He seems to be one of the first to understand. She sees him look to where she had been standing when he'd seen her earlier, and his eyes look so tired. So very tired.

She can do nothing but watch him. Her eyes refusing to leave his face. He has his mask on.

Even when he was younger, he had a mask. It kept the other children away and the fear brought on by it usually kept her safe when the other children would try to hurt her. Tristan would appear with his mask on, and they would leave quickly. Even then he had been intimidating, but not towards her. Never towards her.

He had never been what one would call 'talkative', but then again, neither was she. They both upheld a philosophy of, if what you think about saying won't improve the silence, don't say it. This eliminated the need for idle chit-chat, but whenever the two of them did talk, it was a conversation worth having. They trusted each other like no other person in the village. She always knew that he would protect her, no matter what.

She never could understand why he had chosen to befriend her, to protect her, to teach her to be able to defend herself. It would have been so much easier for him if he had either sided with the rest of the village or remained neutral, indifferent. Maybe it was because their situations had been so similar. Both orphaned at a young age. Both shunned by their peers, for different reasons, of course, but still shunned.

"I am a free man!" someone bellows and she forces herself to look from Tristan to the owner of the voice as a baby begins crying. The bulky wall of a man had yelled.

'—_Bors. I am sure he meant you no insult._'

Where is all this coming from? She shakes her head, trying to clear it just as the man, Bors, yells again with tears in his eyes.

"I will choose my own fate!"

"Yeh, yeh," says a voice and she snaps back to look at him. "We're all going to die some day," he shrugs. "If it is a death from Saxon hands that frightens you," he begins, raising the knife with a slice of apple on it to his mouth as he sneers, "stay home."

She watches him as he calmly eats the apple slice straight from the knife. Processing his words, she can't help but shiver. Death from Saxon hands.

"Listen! If you are so eager to die," the young one yells, pointing angrily at Tristan, "then you can die right now!"

That said, he lunges at him, the only thing stopping him is the curly-haired man's arm catching him and pushing him back.

"Enough!" the man exclaims, clearly not happy about what he was hearing but not wanting an all out brawl to erupt from it.

"I've got something to live for!" the boy yells at Arthur, at everyone who will listen.

She sees Tristan look at him disapprovingly as he calmly continues to slice the apple in his hand.

"The Romans have broken their word," begins a familiar voice and she looks to see that it is Dagonet who had spoken. "We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I'll prepare."

'…_always level-headed…_'

Once more she shakes her head. She must be going insane. Hearing all these words can't be normal.

"Bors, you coming?" Dagonet asks, hand on the handle of his sword as he walks off.

Bors looks as if any moment now, he'll break down, but he is too strong for that. "Of course I'm coming! Can't let you go on your own! You'll get killed!" he bellows angrily.

Once more, Iseult's eyes fall on Tristan and she watches him as he leaves, following Dagonet.

"I'm just saying what you're all thinking!"

Iseult sees the dark-haired knight look as if he is barely restraining himself and losing patience quickly, as if anyone else having one more obvious and stupid outburst will send him over the edge. Thankfully, Bors leaves, not another word uttered to any of the knights.

Movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention and she sees a man with long blond hair walk back over to rejoin the remaining knights. He takes a swig of his drink and lightly clears his throat.

This man looks even more familiar than Bors had. She can't help but wonder why they both seem so familiar to her. Especially this man.

"And you Gawain?"

He looks thoughtful a moment then nods.

"I am with you," he answers, before looking at the youngest knight. "Galahad as well."

The man's voice brings on an onslaught of words. Things she has never heard before, yet has.

'_I believe you have threatened a woman. A beautiful Sarmatian woman at that, if my eyes do not deceive me. I told you they exist…_'

'_Please excuse my friend. He can be crude at times. He obviously doesn't know the difference between what it is okay to talk about in the company of men, and what is polite in the company of women..._ '

'_It grows late. We should get you to the villa…_ '

'_How long has it been since you had a good meal?... _'

'_What are you thinking?... _'

'_You think I'm joking, lad, but she overheard…_'

The force of these half-remembrances leaves her leaning against a wall for support. Thankfully no one pays her any heed and she manages to force herself upright once more. Why does this keep happening?

She realizes upon looking around that the knights have left and that Arthur is leaving, the curly-haired knight not far behind him.

She must know more of what this mission entails. She knows that it will be dangerous. They spoke of Woads, but she knows she hadn't paid close enough attention when Arthur had been explaining the mission to the knights. She could have missed anything.

Without a word, she follows after the black-haired knight, careful not to make a sound. Years of practice had silenced her steps and sharpened her eyes to be able to perceive when the one she is following might turn. Every time he would begin to glance over his shoulder, she would dodge behind anything which would hide her, and then once he had turned back to watch where he was walking, she would continue on.

She follows him in this manner until they reach the knight's stables and he goes inside. She dares not go much further, instead approaching one of the outer walls and placing her ear to it, listening.

"Why do you always talk to your God and not to me?" begins a voice different than the man called Arthur, and she realizes that it must be the curly-haired knight she had seen enter. "Or pray, to whomever you pray, that we don't cross the Saxons."

Her thoughts threaten to take over once more, but she forces herself to listen. She must know what the details of the mission are.

"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot. Why do you challenge this?" asks the familiar voice of Arthur.

"I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees."

'So then his name must be Lancelot,' she thinks before mentally berating herself for missing the first part of what Arthur had just said.

"… God he trusts. Without faith, without belief in something, what are we?"

"To try to get past the Woads in the North is insanity," Lancelot says in answer.

"Them we've fought before."

"Not north of the wall! … How many Saxons? Hm? How many?" he asks. He receives no answer and after a moment, he continues. "Tell me. Do you believe in this mission?"

"These people need our help. It is our duty—"

"I don't care about your charge, and I don't give a _damn _about Romans, Britons, or this island! If you desire to spend eternity in this place, Arthur, so be it! But suicide cannot be chosen for another!"

'Suicide? The mission would be that dangerous? Tristan…' Iseult thinks, her mind once more wondering before brought back by Lancelot yelling, completely enraged.

"NO! I choose life, and freedom for myself and the men!"

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? Outnumbered, outflanked, yet still we triumph. With you at my side, we can do so again. Lancelot. We are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?"

"Arthur," come Lancelot's voice. He sounds so long-suffering, as if talking to a child who dreams of flying. "You fight for a world that will never exist. Never. There will always be a battlefield." He is silent again, but when he speaks next he sounds so defeated, resigned. "I will die in battle. Of that, I am certain. And hopefully, a battle of my choosing… But… If it be _this_ one, grant me a favor. Don't bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and cast my ashes to a strong east wind."

There is no answer, but Iseult hears footsteps coming towards the door, and so she quickly hurries around the corner and back the way she had come. She doesn't stop walking until she reaches the room that Dagonet had found for her, at which point she opens the door, walks inside, locks it behind her, and collapses on the bed.

Her thoughts are so jumbled. So confused.

A suicide mission. That is what Rome broke their promise with? Probably the most dangerous mission they had ever gone on.

Suddenly, she hates Rome even more than she normally does. What if… what if none of the men come back from the mission? What if _he_ doesn't? What if she waits until they return and _he_ is not among them?

No. She is through with waiting. She will do so no longer. Tomorrow, it will not be only the knights who are leaving. For, if he leaves, she will follow.

* * *

**Who liked? Who didn't?**

**We're actually getting into the movie now so... Yeah.**

**And the outfit that Dagonet observed her wearing, it's an actual style of Sarmatian dress (other than the slits down the sides of the long tunic for horseback riding and battlefield movement, but I had to set her apart from most women in her tribe from that aspect). I actually did some research to find what I was looking for so... Yeah. ^_^**

**Well, I'd love to get some feedback so... Reviews are certainly welcome and thank you to those who have reviewed already. ^_^**

**I will try to update very soon. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	9. Prove It

**Sorry for the down time. I've been having to work on some things.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 9: Prove It

The first rays of the morning light find Arthur and his knights in the stable. Each knight is finishing the final touches of the preparation for their journey ahead of them. Each with their own very different thoughts to mull over.

He has to admit, his mind has wondered back to last night at the tavern several times now as he sharpens his sword and cleans it. Is that really what she looks like now? It had looked so much like her, yet somehow different. Older, of course, but there had been something else, too. It hadn't been so much how she looked as how she appeared. Stronger, perhaps?

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. He had not thought of her in some time and now is not the time to do so. He cannot allow himself to get distracted like this. Arthur and his brothers will need him more than ever on this mission. He has to keep a clear head if he is to guide them through the days ahead. Distractions would get them all killed.

He continues to clean the curved sword of his homeland until it is spotless and then sheaths it, still at war with himself.

Just as he finally manages to banish all thoughts of last night from his mind, he hears the sound of a horse coming toward the stables. He closes his eyes and listens carefully, relatively certain that the horse will continue on past, probably a messenger of some sort. To his surprise, though, the noise stops just in front of the stables. He opens his eyes and looks outside.

It can't be. It can't. Once more he rubs his eyes, wondering what is wrong with him. When he finally looks back up he fully expects to see nothing again, but nothing has changed.

Without so much as a glance at this fellow knights, he walks outside the doors, leaving his brothers and leader thoroughly puzzled and exchanging confused glances. They follow him outside and stand slightly behind Tristan as he stands a distance away from the rider and the horse.

He's squinting at the rider and, to the knights and Arthur who know him better than anyone, they know that he's analyzing her and taking in every detail from her brown hair and brown eyes to her leather armor.

It has to be her. He can see the birthmark on the right side of her face. It can't be anyone except her. She had travelled all the way here to Briton? But why? Why would she travel here? She is free.

He allows his eyes to wander over her. She's gotten taller since he'd last seen her. He wouldn't be surprised if she was almost his height now. That wasn't all that had changed since he was forced to leave though. Even with her armor on, he can't help but notice that she had filled out since the day that he had left, fifteen years ago.

He involuntarily remembers back to the day when he had left. He had been sixteen, a year older than most of the recruits. What he remembers, is the look that had been in her eyes right before he left. He couldn't put a name to that look back then. Even now, he doesn't know a word for it.

He can't ponder that for long, though, because immediately his mind drifts to what else had happened.

He still can't figure out, even as he looks at her now, why she had done what she had that day. It had confused him greatly. What had confused all the more was that she had proceeded to push him down to the ground and run off.

"Tristan…" the rider breathes, her voice a mixture of both disbelief and relief as she realizes that he recognizes her.

Her voice snaps him from his thoughts and he returns to his cold, brutal, unforgiving reality. One in which she does not belong.

"Why are you here?"

Her change in expression is minute, but the more observant ones of the group catch the small downturn to the corner of her lips and the slight hardening of her eyes.

"That's some way to greet a friend after fifteen years, but that's obviously not the matter at hand. I am here because I plan to accompany you on this mission which you were given at the tavern last night."

'So she was there,' a voice in the back of his mind says before he silences it.

His normally indifferent, emotionless eyes take on a slightly different look, almost entirely unnoticed.

"Absolutely not."

"And why not?" she questions, her chin tilting up ever so slightly.

Tristan knows this to be a sign that she is going to fight.

'Well, if it's a fight she wants, she'll bloody well get one,' he thinks.

"You are not trained."

"You trained me yourself."

"I never taught you more than the basics. You don't know how to defend yourself in battle."

He sees her eyes narrow, clearly angry beyond being able to even try to feign indifference now.

'Women. They have no control over their emotions.'

"You've been gone fifteen year. You don't know _what_ I've learned," she practically growls. "Galvin, himself, took up my training when you left."

Tristan does not allow his surprise to change his demeanor. Instead, knowing that their argument is not only getting nowhere, but also costing valuable time, he turns to Arthur.

"You won't let her go," he says with the same measured calm he normally would have.

It is not a question, but a demand.

"Who is she?" Arthur asks confusedly.

To both Tristan and Arthur's surprise, it is one of the knights that speaks.

"Her name is Iseult. She arrived here last night in full battle armor and with all her weapons either on her horse or on her person. I showed her around," says Dagonet, "and I know for a fact that she's at least quick with a knife. She pulled one on me anytime I startled her."

Tristan instantly shoots Dag a look that clearly conveys the word 'traitor'.

"Really now?" asks Lancelot, quirking an eyebrow at the woman and then Dag. "And how long did you remain in her company?"

Dagonet's disapproving look, coupled with Tristan's cold glare, tells him that now is not the time.

"Arthur," begins Dag. "Perhaps we should give them a moment to talk."

"Perhaps that would be for the best," nods Arthur as he turns to continue preparing in the stables, Dag corralling the rest of the knights back inside as well.

Immediately once they are inside and out of earshot, Tristan spins around on Iseult.

"What are you thinking?"

She knows him well enough to know that were he anyone else, this comment would sound seething, but she doesn't particularly care at the moment. She isn't really all that happy either. She didn't expect him to be happy about the idea of her coming, but she hadn't expected him to be so vehemently opposed to it either. Well, as vehement as Tristan could possibly be.

"That you still have yet to say anything anywhere resembling friendly. So far, you have not so much as asked how I fare after my journey or how I have been these past fifteen years."

"Why do you think you can come on this mission?"

"I am a full Sarmatian warrior."

"This is a suicide mission."

"All the more reason for me to go!" she proclaims before leaning down in the saddle to look him in the eye and lowering her voice. "Do you honestly believe I will watch you go into battle and stay behind? You obviously have forgotten much about me."

"I did not ask for, nor do I need, your help, Iseult."

The way that he says her name is biting, but she will not show him its affect. That's what he wants from her right now, is for her to show a weakness. She will not play along in his game.

"And, yet, here I am, and I refuse to watch you go off into battle without me. I've dutifully waited back home, not knowing, for long enough. Now I am here, and while it was not my original intent for coming, I will go with you all on this last mission. Besides, you are down to six knights and Arthur. You need as many people as you can get."

"Trained warriors."

"I am trained. What is it about this concept that you are not understanding, Tristan? I will go with you, whether you like the idea or not."

"You won't," he says with a tone of finality as he turns and begins to walk back into the stables.

"You'll not end this conversation in such a childish manner, nor forbid me from choosing my own fate. I am ready for this and have been for some time."

He stops dead in his tracks and, without turning, answers quietly, "Prove it."

"Excuse me?" she asks, not having heard him.

He turns to look at her, his mask still in place, but his eyes betraying his determination.

"Prove it to me. Face me with your sword. If you are ready, it should not be a problem.

Iseult's face becomes immediately impassive, cold as she dismounts and turns to face him.

"Fine."

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**O_O Don't be mad at me. I'm finishing writing the next chapter as you're reading this. I promise!**

**I'd love to hear from you guys! **

**~Kanae~**


	10. Scars

**Sorry that it has been a little while since I updated.  
This would have been up last night, but I had a terrible headache and I didn't feel well at all.**

**Well, here it is, despite its lateness... All NINE pages on TNR size 12. Yes, this chapter is longer than all the other ones so far, which meant I was typing most of the day because of my typing failure. TT^TT**

**So I hope you all e****njoy! ^_^**

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Chapter 10: Scars

Upon hearing the sound of blades being drawn, Arthur and his knights all rush outside.

"Tristan! What in bloody hell are you doing?" exclaims Gawain.

The man in question shrugs nonchalantly.

"She thinks she is ready for the Woads and the Saxons."

"So… what? You're testing her?" Galahad half yells, horrified by the prospect.

Seeing there would be no response to Galahad's question, Gawain speaks up again.

"Tristan, you could hurt her."

"Better my hand than some Saxon or Woad," he mutters under his breath.

Not hearing an answer, Lancelot spins around on Arthur.

"Are you honestly going to allow this insanity?"

Arthur looks thoughtful for a minute, looking at the set face of the woman who becomes slightly nervous under his gaze.

"She wishes to accompany us; I must know that she is capable," Arthur says slowly, as if trying to talk himself into the idea. Lancelot opens his mouth to protest, but the man cuts him off, this time speaking more forcefully. "Lancelot, I cannot bring her into this without knowing if she can at the least defend herself." Without giving Lancelot a chance to argue anymore, he turns to the knight who had showed her around the night before. "Dagonet, I want you to step in at which point you feel it is needed."

Dagonet nods his understanding and steps forward to easier be able to intervene, then nods to both Tristan and Iseult.

Almost immediately, the two of them lock in on each other, watching intently for any sign of movement as they circle.

Just when the onlookers think it safe to blink, Tristan takes the first swing, hoping to catch her by surprise and throw her off. Instead, she jumps back, the swing glancing off her sword.

Tristan pulls back, returning to his original stance as if analyzing anew, trying to pinpoint any sluggishness or weakness on her part. Not finding one, he tries again, this time trying an overhead maneuver, forcing her to bring her sword up to block. For a moment, he puts all his strength into trying to force her blade down, and, while it does have some effect, it does not do quite what he had intended. Without a second thought, he slides the sword away from the contact and spins, trying to hit her currently unguarded side.

Once more, she blocks, having anticipated his next move due to remembering his own training of her.

'_If an enemy tries to strike you high and you block, they will most often try to use your block to attack an unprotected area, like your leg or side. They are counting on you to be slow adjusting. You cannot be slow._'

Tristan breaks contact and backs up once more, debating his next move. He decides and immediately goes into action, becoming serious. He will have to concentrate hard not to seriously hurt her.

This thought in mind, he goes into what many have named the 'Dance of Death' or the 'Deathdance'. His movements become fluid, easily flowing from one move to the next when Iseult would somehow manage to block the blow before.

Inevitably, though, one of the moves lands solidly, slicing her left arm, cutting her sleeve and the skin under it.

She flinches and grits her teeth, but sends Dagonet a warning look when he starts to step forward. He stops in his tracks and steps back once more as she returns her full attention to Tristan.

Before Tristan has time to retry his prior success, Iseult goes on the offensive. Her blows come is such quick succession that even Tristan is forced to keep moving. Her moves aren't always fluid, nor are they particularly strong, but her light blade allows moving quickly to be her specialty. Galvin had easily seen, during his teaching her, that she would not be exceptionally strong or agile, but she was fast.

Even Dagonet, who had witnessed her reflexes first hand, has to admit to being pleasantly surprised. What she lacks in strength and fluidity, she makes up for with speed and an ability to adjust quickly. Dag can't help but think that if it was a lesser swordsman she was fighting, she would have landed several hits by now. Probably nothing fatal, nor a great deal of hits, but enough to start wearing an enemy down. Because it is Tristan she is fighting, though, all but one of her attacks had been either deflected or dodged. The only one that had landed had only barely grazed the scout's left hand.

Then, the unexpected happens very suddenly.

Iseult sees an opening. Tristan's stance had widened slightly during the fight. Just enough for her to get away with the move. Exactly in the middle of Tristan taking a step back, she kicks out and sees Tristan's eyes widen slightly in surprise.

She knows very well what her opponent, and the knights, will expect from a woman intent on winning. Instead of doing what they believe and/or fear her doing, that which she had never had any intention of doing in the first place, she makes contact with his ankle, hooks her foot behind and yanks back.

The effect is immediate as she and Tristan both crash to the dirt, her having been pulled down due to him catching her wrist in his fall. When they hit the ground, they hit with enough force that both of their swords clatter away. Without a second's hesitation, they roll away from each other quickly and in one smooth draw and lunge motion, each has a dagger at the other's neck, touching, but not cutting.

"Enough!" Dag shouts. He takes two quick strides and roughly separates them.

They both willingly step back another step and put their knives away, never taking their glares from one another. The battle is still going on, except now it is a battle of wills and an unspoken argument.

Finally, Tristan frowns.

"Fine. If Arthur says you can go, go. Get yourself killed. Obviously does not matter to you, so why should I care?"

Having thus spoken, he retrieves his blade and stalks off, disappearing within the stable doors.

Everyone— the knights, Arthur, and Iseult— watches after him.

Lancelot is the first to speak.

"It is true that you have skill with a blade, but what of battle? It is different there. Have you ever _actually_ killed someone?"

She snaps her attention from the stable doors to the dark-haired knight.

"I have defended my village for seven years. I am no ignorant, nor innocent."

A loud snort issues from the barn, obviously from a rather darkly amused knight, but it is ignored.

"Can you protect yourself?" asks Arthur. "You cannot rely on my men to help you."

She sneers, a facial expression that already seems familiar to Gawain for some reason.

"I do not require their help in battle. I can protect myself. The last fifteen years have left me with no choice."

"Well then… Taking into account the fact that you kept pace with Tristan for the most part…" he stops and examines her, starting over. "I suspect that your strong desire to go will allow my answer to change nothing, yes?"

For the first time the knights had seen, Iseult smirks mischievously and shakes her head.

"I would follow after you all left."

Arthur nods, as if having expected her answer.

"I thought as much. I suppose, under the circumstances, I haven't a choice. I would rather you travel with us than follow after. You may come, but you must obey my commands just as my knights do. You cannot act solely of your own accord and disregard what I say. If I say something or issue an order, it is for good reason. Am I understood?"

She nods in way of response and Arthur returns the gesture.

"Very well. The knights and I will be ready to depart shortly," he says turning to walk inside.

All the knights save for three give her strange looks. One of the three, Lancelot, winks at her to which she rolls her eyes. There had been men like him in her village and she refused to fall for his tactics. Dagonet's look, on the other hand, is a kind smile whereas Gawain's eyes search her face, trying to find a reason to explain away the vague familiarity that he has felt towards her since he had first seen her.

She watches as they disappear inside before picking up and sheathing her own blade and mounting her horse. Just as she is fixing to look at her arm, she stops, seeing several men enter the stables. Four to be exact. Two Roman guards and two men dressed well, obviously important people. Her eyes do not leave the doors until the two guards and the most extravagantly dressed man leave the stable.

Once the group is out of sight, she begins to covertly examine her left arm. He had gotten her good. No doubt it would scar. Not that she really minds. It will match some of her others.

Instinctively, she reaches up and brushes a finger over her left temple, tracing the scar there, hidden by her thick hair. Realizing what she will start thinking upon, she quickly returns her hand to the reigns.

Hearing a horse, she looks to the doors. She smiles at the rider as he stops his horse alongside her.

"You really did do well against Tristan," says the man with his deep, soft voice.

"Thank you, Dagonet, but I couldn't have done all that well," she replies, lifting her arm at the shoulder and then lowering it again.

The corners of Dag's mouth turn down ever so slightly as he looks at the still faintly bleeding gash.

"May I?" he asks, holding his hand out in an offer to look at the cut. Seeing that she is about to protest, he holds his other hand up to stop her. "The others are still inside finishing preparations, and that wound needs to be cleaned."

She looks at the big man, as if to argue, but realizes that he is right. After glancing at the stable doors once more, she places her arm in his offered hand.

He blinks for a moment, clearly surprised that she had complied without much argument, but he quickly recovers and spreads open the tear in her sleeve to examine the wound.

It's not all that deep, but Tristan had obviously been trying to send a message. Her arm will no doubt scar no matter how well it is tended to.

He sighs and then looks up from the wound to her face.

"Can you roll your sleeve up?"

"No," she says and this time it is her turn to silence him, "but I can do something else."

That said, she reaches with her other hand to the seam in her left sleeve, undoes a knot, and pulls at the bottom of the sleeve until there is a sizeable gap at the elbow.

Seeing Dagonet's questioning look, she elaborates.

"I find it useful to be able to wear long sleeves or short sleeves depending on the weather without having to carry so much. I made my shirts so that I can undo the elbow seam, which allows me to detach from the elbow down in warm weather."

Dagonet nods, actually somewhat impressed by her creativity.

"Helps get to wounds, too," he smiles good-naturedly at her as he pulls out a bottle of cleaner from his saddlebag. She can't help but return the smile. "This will probably sting."

She shrugs and he starts cleaning the wound, glancing up at her occasionally to make sure he's not hurting her. Her face is calm, barely showing a sign of discomfort. Apparently, Tristan had taught her more than fighting.

As he cleans and bandages the wound, silence falls over them. It lasts until he finishes and returns his supplies to their proper places and straightens up, noticing her eyes studying him.

He can't help but think she's staring at his rather ugly scars. Most women would recoil at the sight of them. Figures that even a warrior woman can't look past them.

"For a man of your build," she begins thoughtfully, "you have very gentle hands. You are a healer and have been trained as such, yes?"

The simple statement and question throws him off. Was that what she had been thinking?

"Yes," he says finally, upon remembering that she had asked him a question. "My grandfather. He was the village healer. He taught me what he knew of healing."

She nods her understanding as she looks over his work, nods once more, and fixes her sleeve.

What he does not tell her, what he has not told anyone, is _why_ his grandfather had taught him.

He had always had a large build, not quite like he does now, but he had always been taller and had more breadth to his shoulders than most his age. Due to this, he always seemed to injure other children by accident. After one particular incident, he had been particularly upset and had told his grandfather about how he thought he was particularly cursed.

He remembers how the elderly man had merely smiled gently, his eyes filled with knowledge.

'_Dagonet. You may think your height and build a curse now, but one day, it may very well help those you care about_.'

'_How, grandfather? All I do is hurt people. I don't do it on purpose. I just…_'

Again, he had smiled warmly at him.

'_Dagonet. Would you like for me to teach you what I know of healing?_'

'_Father says that you wouldn't teach him. Why would you teach me?_'

'_Because you, unlike your father, have a healer's heart. You care for people. All those around you, despite how they may treat you. Now, do you wish to learn from me?_'

He had stared at the man a moment, trying to find a motive, but he had still been young then. Only ten summers old. Finding none behind the old man's offer, he had nodded and his grandfather had immediately begun to teach him.

Looking back now, he knows his grandfather had helped him greatly. The other children had not been nearly as upset with him for injuring them when he knew how to fix it. He had become quite popular among the other children because he knew how to fix their scraped knees and broken bones.

How he misses the old man. He had died a year before the Romans had come to get him. In a way, he is glad that he died before then. Had his grandfather still been alive, it would have been harder for him to leave.

Iseult watches the man's face. He seems as though he is far away, but when his eyes start to get misty looking, she turns away as if scanning the horizon, giving him his privacy.

He blinks quickly, forcing himself from his remembrances just as he catches movement at the stable door. He and Iseult both turn to see Tristan leading his horse out of the building and mounting, not even sparing either of them a glance.

Dagonet looks at Iseult out of the corner of his eye. He sees her slump ever so slightly and her face falls just a little before she catches herself and straightens, acting indifferent as she turns the other way.

Dag turns a heavy stare toward Tristan and shakes his head. He understands the scout isn't happy about her accompanying them, but he could at least not ignore her. She had, after all, travelled all the way from their homeland to see him. Judging by the time of her arrival, she had probably meant to either accompany him on his way back to Sarmatia or to travel and stay with him wherever he would go. Her plans had probably only changed upon hearing of the final mission in the tavern last night.

If he's being honest with himself, he has to admit it. He's not terribly comfortable with her coming with them either, despite his previous good word on her behalf and his compliment about her competence against Tristan. Women do not belong in such dangerous settings.

Of course, he knows there are many Sarmatian tribes in which women are warriors in equal standing with the men. Even within his own village, there had been women who had hunted and fought alongside the men. In many tribes, it is even custom for, at the birth of a baby girl while they are yet babies, the mother to heat a bronze instrument constructed for the exact purpose of cauterizing the right breast, preventing its growth so that it would not later impair the child's archery skill.

Simply thinking about this, he winces. He cannot bear the thought of such an act. Even as a battle-scarred warrior, the thought turns his stomach. What a horrible thing to do to a child.

Of course, Iseult had obviously either not been meant to be a warrior or had not been in one of those tribes, for he had seen her in her tunic the night before as he took her to the tavern, and that custom had clearly not been performed.

He quickly busies himself with rechecking his supplies as a light blush starts to creep up his neck. Oh, how thankful he is that Bors is not yet out to give him a hard time. Despite the fact that Bors is not one of the brightest of the knights— that title would be split between Lancelot and Tristan— he always seems to know what others are thinking, especially Dagonet.

Another movement at the stable doors distracts him as the very man he had been thinking of rides up to him.

"Dag, you been keepin' the lady comp'ny?" he asks, winking at Dag before looking Iseult over skeptically. "So you're a warrior, huh?"

Dag and Bors both watch as she straightens.

"Yes," she responds shortly, knowing that he is being patronizing.

" 'ow many battles you been in?"

"No battles, just fights to protect my village."

"Ever killed a man? Had 'is blood covering you, staining yer clothes and skin—"

"Bors. Enough," Dag proclaims. He knows what Bors is trying to do, and he does not approve of scare tactics.

Iseult shakes her head, "It's fine, Dagonet. Bors is not bothering me. He is concerned that I'm not ready and will endanger you all. He has every right to ask me questions. I am the only unproven among you."

She then leans toward the two of them and focuses her gaze on Bors who fights back the sudden urge to flinch from the sudden coldness in her eyes.

"As I said before. I am no ignorant, nor innocent," she starts, lowering her voice. "Yes. I have stood in the midst of a fight and been covered in other's blood mingled with my own. I have seen the blank, staring eyes of those who fell by my blade. I have stood over them as they issue their final death rattle and depart from this world. I have watched as people from my village have fallen, and I unable to do anything. I have not fought battles on the scale that you and the others have, but I am no stranger to blood and death."

Bors and Dagonet shift uncomfortably in their saddles, clearly having not expected such a dark answer, though, Dagonet would almost swear that he had seen the corner of Tristan's mouth upturn at seeing their discomfort. No doubt he had heard her answer to Bors and found some dark humor in their response to it.

Fortunately, Iseult straightens up, a tiny smirk visible on her tanned face as she once more scans the horizon.

Dag shoots an accusatory look at Bors who shrugs and mutters something to the affect of 'I can see the resemblance' while looking between Tristan and Iseult. The giant knight barely chokes back a chuckle as Tristan's gaze moves to Bors, who once more shifts nervously. Bors' horse, sensing its rider's nervousness, paws a hoof in the dirt. Seemingly satisfied by the reaction, Tristan turns his calm gaze back to the road ahead.

Not a moment later, all four already outside look to the stables as the remaining four riders emerge, followed by two others who are leading pack animals.

Arthur nods to them and kicks his horse into a gallop, everyone else following suite.

As they start forward towards the wall, Iseult can't stop a cold shiver that runs down her spine.

Their mission has begun.

_______________

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_

**Okay. Own up. How many people thought Iseult was gonna fight dirty against Tristan?**  
**Don't lie. Even Tristan thought/feared what she would do.**

**What do you guys think so far? Good, bad, ugly? Do you hate it, love it?**  
**Is Iseult believable?**

**Here's another question, but it's kinda random. Did anyone like how I explained Dag becoming a "healer"?**

**Anyway. I'd love to hear what you guys think.**

**I will try to update again soon. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	11. Wonderful

**Sorry for the wait. Hope my wonderful readers like this chapter. We're really starting into the movie, though, technically we started into it several chapters ago... **  
**Oh well. Now we're TRULY starting into it. Haha.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 11: Wonderful

Rain, thunder, lightning, and now this. They're everywhere. Who? She hasn't the foggiest idea. Probably the Woads everyone had been talking about earlier. Does she know that for certain? No, because no one is talking now and no one has bothered to fill her in.

She casts a glance at Tristan, but he's scanning the trees and bush suspiciously. Obviously, she isn't the only one who feels their eyes.

Next, she turns to look beside her at Dag who gives her a smile that is probably meant to be reassuring but comes off as more forced than anything else. Clearly, he is uneasy as well.

Her horse is being skittish; that in and of itself is a sign that all is not right, nor is it well. Subconsciously, Iseult's hand drifts to the bow slung over her quiver that is attached to Mairete's saddle.

"Woads. They're tracking us," his voice says only loudly enough for those in the immediate area around him to hear.

"Where?" asks Arthur, looking around.

He drifts up to the front next to Arthur and looks around as he replies, "Everywhere."

Now everyone is looking around warily. Every twig that snaps is a Woad moving through the bush. Every leaf that falls from a tree has been detached as some Woad archer gets into position in one of the trees above them, pulling back the string on a bow, waiting for the right moment to drop one of them. At least, these are the imaginings of overly tense nerves.

Looking at Tristan once more, she can see that even he is uneasy. He knows, as she does and most likely as several others do, that if they are ambushed here in the woods, their chances of surviving are slim. The Woads are natives to this land. They know the land and trees and bushes and animals as no knight, bishop's aide, squire, Sarmatian woman, or Roman commander could ever hope to know them.

She places a calming hand on her horse's neck, trying to tell the creature that everything will be fine.

_No,_ the horse seems to say, shaking her head. _Danger_, her wide eyes warn.

Iseult leans forward to whisper comforting words in the mare's ears. The horse calms, if only a little, from her rider's reassurances.

She straightens up from whispering to her horse to see Dagonet give her an approving nod. She nods back and scans the area once more, perfectly timing it so that if Tristan isn't looking at a certain area, she is, and vice-versa.

Suddenly, a loud snapping noise fills the forest and arrows with barbed strings embed themselves in the ground and trees in front of the group, blocking their path.

"Yah!" she hears Bors yell as he spurs his horse to follow Arthur who has turned another way. She kicks her horse into a gallop to keep up with the others.

Even faster than before, more lines appear in front of them, and she watches from the back as Arthur barely manages to stop his horse in time.

"Get back!" she barely hears Lancelot shout.

Bors turns to look at them. "Get back!"

His yell is even louder than Lancelot's, yet just as those in the back— her, Tristan, and Dag— are trying to turn, more arrows with lines attached cut off their way.

She starts as she sees one of the blue-painted archers aiming from a tree and she barely has enough time to shout,

"Dag!"

It is enough time, though, and he ducks, barely avoiding an arrow to the head.

There is no time for any other words as they thunder after Galahad who has taken off in yet another direction.

They make a few sharp turns and, suddenly, a wooden fence that is sharpened into sharp points at the tips pops up, once more effectively cutting them off.

'Corralling us,' she thinks even as she spots another danger.

"There!" she points at the archer up in a tree, warning the others.

A pain shooting up her left arm tells her an arrow has just grazed it; following it are two more arrows that almost hit Tristan and his horse. Thankfully, he leans back in the saddle, narrowly avoiding the arrow meant for him, and due to his action, his horse jerks back, the arrow harmlessly planting itself in the ground.

"This way!" she hears someone yell through the madness.

She turns only in enough time to see Arthur start down the only remaining path. One-handedly, she whips Mairete around, catching up with Tristan and Dag.

Over the thunder of the horses' hooves, above the sound of the adrenaline and blood pounding in her ears, she can hear them running after them. They are trying to cut off their escape. Box them in. Slaughter them.

Even as the Woads' battle cry rips through the thick, tense air, she knows that not even their horses will be able to outrun the noose tightening around all their necks.

Then they appear, leaping out in front of Arthur's horse, which rears to avoid their spears, that are poised and ready.

"Yaaah!" Bors yells once more. Making one more desperate attempt to escape, he turns his horse and takes off, everyone else following. Arthur, having been leading them earlier, is the furthest one back, and the Woads could practically jump on the horse with him if they were to try.

Unavoidably, she and all the others must once more stop in the face of barbed wire 'fences', the Woads on the other side, weapons ready.

Arthur draws his sword with a resounding '_shiiiiinng_'. He locks eyes with the leader of the Woad attack party. They seem to be having some sort of unspoken conversation even as the Woad pulls the string back on his bow.

A low, haunting sound echoes around the hills and all the Woads seem to look around, puzzled.

Taking advantage of this, Iseult scans quickly, counting as she grabs her bow, nocks an arrow, and pulls the string back, ignoring the throbbing pain from her protesting arm. If this is it, she will not just give up. She is a warrior and she will fight until her last, dying breath escapes her body.

He glances over at her almost subconsciously as he pulls the string back and tries to dissuade any Woads from approaching.

He can see the determination on her face, the fire in her eyes as the strands of hair that have escaped her braid whip around her face. For a second, he forgets about the Woads and simply stares at her, maybe seeing for the first time that she is not the scared little girl he'd once had to defend from the other children of their tribe.

Arm bleeding, eyes flashing dangerously, weapon in hand and ready, daring the Woads to try to come closer, she looks like one of their Amazonian ancestors of legend; the proud warriors who had married into the Scythians, producing the Sarmatian race.

Focus. He must focus. He forces himself to look around and pivots his aim, stopping a group of Woads in their tracks.

Why don't they attack? Their war party could easily overwhelm them.

"What are you waiting for?" Gawain shouts up into the trees where the Woad archers are positioned.

The same chilling wound surrounds them once more and a shiver goes down Iseult's spine. The sound is almost unearthly.

Her eyes fall on the Woad party's leader whose arrow is still aimed at Arthur. He listens to the eerie sound and seems to understand its meaning. He appears to be warring with himself, but eventually, he lowers the bow and begins backing away, disappearing into the vegetation and mist.

For a moment, Iseult glances around warily. Will the Woads wait until they relax and then ambush them? Would they really just _leave_? Not _just_ leave, though. Leave while they had the advantage.

She eases her bowstring back to its rest position and flips the arrow into the hand holding the bow.

"Inish," Dag says from beside her to her right. His voice is harsh and rough as he looks up at the now empty trees. "Devil ghosts."

"Why would they not attack?" asks Galahad, voicing the thoughts of several.

Arthur replies grimly, "Merlin doesn't want us dead."

"Why else would they leave?" Tristan asks, trying to make a point. "They had us outnumbered and trapped. They could have easily picked us off."

"That's true," Gawain mutters, perhaps more to himself than anyone else.

"So Merlin doesn't want us dead," begins Lancelot, "Why?"

Bors looks around anxiously before he speaks.

"I don't know, but I'd rather not sit here talkin' about it long enough for 'im to change 'is mind."

Arthur merely nods and they follow the commander's lead as he starts down a path.

Not long into the ride, Dag's eyes scan over the group. Being the healer, he finds it to be his responsibility to spy injuries because none of the knights, or Arthur, will ever simply come forward about them.

After quickly looking at Jols and Horton, the bishop's aide who had accompanied them as a sign of the 'goodwill' of Rome, he takes a cursory glance over his brothers and Arthur. Feeling confident that none of them are injured, he sighs in relief. Before he can look away, though, one of them catches his eyes. Tristan. The scout holds his gaze a moment, just long enough to silently get his attention, before looking elsewhere and then back at him again.

Dag is puzzled until Tristan repeats the action. Catching on that Tristan is trying to draw his attention to something, he follows Tristan's line of sight and turns to his right, his gaze falling on Iseult. He looks back at Tristan questioningly and the scout makes a minute jerk of his head in her direction, clearly telling him to look at her again.

The knight does as he is asked and looks at Iseult once more. Of course! He mentally berates himself. Unused to her presence, he had completely forgotten to glance over at her to see if she had been injured. Immediately, he begins to look her over carefully for any sign of an injury. All he can see is her right side and she seems fine, but he knows that Tristan wouldn't tell him to look at her for no reason.

He glances at her face and realizes that her it is tightly drawn and her jaw clenched. Suddenly, he understands.

Tristan had been trying to tell him that she's hurt.

He looks to his left and catches Tristan's eyes once more, discreetly raising his hands as if to ask 'where?' Tristan seems to understand the unspoken question because as he looks straight ahead, he casually lifts his right hand to rest on his left arm, glancing at Dagonet from the corner of his eye.

Dag nods once and Tristan begins scanning the forest around them.

Evidently, her left arm is hurt in some manner. Maybe all the commotion and sudden movement had reopened the wound obtained from her and Tristan's fight. That wound had been on her left arm, after all.

Dag leans forward in the saddle as if he is adjusting how he is sitting but glances at her as he does so. Even in the gathering darkness, he can just barely see an edge of crimson on her left sleeve before he leans back. No. The wound had not simply reopened. This is another one entirely.

He shakes his head. Of course she would be just as stubborn as the knights are about wounds. He should have expected no less considering who her teacher had been. Now, how to ask her about it without her getting her defenses up by her injury being brought to everyone's attention…

He looks ahead quickly and sees everyone else is either occupied by their own thoughts— meaning Arthur and Lancelot— or talking— Bors, Gawain, and Galahad— and, of course, looking around watchfully— Tristan and Horton, although the latter more out of paranoia than anything else. Seeing all the others preoccupied, he reaches out and gently touches her right arm.

The muscles under his hand tense as she snaps her head around to look at him. Undoubtedly, he had startled her.

"Iseult," he says quietly, hand still on her arm.

She tries to make her face blank. "Yes, Dag?"

"Your left arm. What happened? It's not bad, is it?"

At first, she just blinks at him, as if surprised that he had noticed, but then she glances around, probably checking exactly what he had less than a few seconds ago. Once satisfied that no one is paying the least bit of attention, she returns her stare to Dagonet.

"An arrow grazed it," she responds only loudly enough for him to hear. "It's fine… Just a little sore."

"Is it still bleeding?"

He watches as she looks down at the wound in question and then back at him. She shakes her head. "No. It stopped."

"When we make camp tonight, let me examine it."

He leaves no room for argument, using the same tone he reserves for the most stubborn among the knights. She hesitates but nods once and then looks straight ahead.

Dag removes his hand from her arm and turns. He catches Tristan's gaze and nods, assuring him that he had taken care of the issue. The scout does not acknowledge him, and returns his eyes to the task of scanning the area for any other potential threats.

Once more, Dag shakes his head before looking up at the ever-darkening sky. Just as he does, a big, fat raindrop falls on his cheek… followed by several more.

'Wonderful…' he thinks just as the deluge begins.

* * *

**So... Anyone like it? Anyone hate it? Anyone not care one way or the other?**

**I have to say, I really like Dag and Iseult's interactions. I love how he knows almost exactly how to deal with her.  
Probably from dealing with Tristan all these years. Haha. ^_^**

**Well, as always, I'll try to update soon, but I honestly can't promise anything. Schedule's getting hectic.**

**~Kanae~**


	12. Avenged

**Here's an update for you guys. **

**I'm dedicating this chapter to irishfire who I hope likes it.**

**Hope all of you enjoy. ^_^**

* * *

Chapter 12: Avenged

A clap of thunder sounds, but it is quickly drowned out by a voice.

"Auugh!" the voice exclaims, catching most everyone's attention. "Oh, I can't wait to leave this island."

The man's long blond hair is plastered to his face and back, and his thin hood is doing nothing to keep the offending flood from soaking him through to the bone. His eyes wander around, looking at his brothers. Galahad is simply sitting beside him. Bors is drinking. Tristan is sharpening his sword. Lancelot seems to be deep in thought.

Movement catches his eyes as Dag sits down beside Bors, Iseult settling between him and the sword-sharpening scout. He almost shivers. Not many people would willingly sit down by Tristan while he is holding any kind of sharp object, let alone when he is in the process of trying to make said object sharper.

Satisfied that he knows now what is going on around him, he continues.

"If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy."

"And that's the summer!" smiles Lancelot.

He can't help but roll his eyes at the man.

"The rain is good," states Bors. "Washes all the blood away."

Gawain watches as Dag look at Bors from the corner of his eye.

"Doesn't help the smell."

A low chuckle emits from the burly man and Dag returns his attention to the small fire.

Gawain's gaze drifts to Iseult who Dag had just finished bandaging up before they had seated themselves down with the others. She, too, is staring into the fire, but her eyes occasionally dart up to look at Tristan who is all but ignoring her.

He truly cannot understand how the man can be so cold and indifferent to the woman who had apparently been a friend of his in the past. Even if he doesn't care about the past, is the man blind? His childhood friend has become a woman, not a bad-looking one either he cannot help but notice as he looks over her.

She's not the typical pretty that most men look for. She has a birthmark on the side of her face right at her jaw line, and she's obviously had a hard life. That is evidenced by her calloused hands and the few scars he had seen which hinted at several others that he couldn't. Still, all that taken into account, she really is rather beautiful with her tanned skin, dark brown eyes, arched eyebrows, and angular cheekbones adorned by a warrior's tattoo on each side. Her's is a rough sort of pretty. One that is only brought further into focus by her wildly curling brown hair, which seems to reflect her untamed spirit.

Yes, Tristan must be blind.

And, of course, there is the _small _fact that she, a free Sarmatian, travelled all the way from their homeland to Briton just to see him.

Gawain cannot help but feel a twinge of jealousy. The bastard doesn't even realize how lucky he is, and if he does, he doesn't seem to care. How many of the others, he included, would give anything for the same to happen to them? Yet, here he is ignoring her, too busy sharpening the blasted sword to so much as return her gaze.

"Hey, Bors," Lancelot starts, breaking Gawain from his thoughts, "do you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?"

"Oh. I'm trying to avoid that decision…by getting killed."

A chuckle escapes from Gawain's mouth, despite his current foul temper brought about by the rain. Bors and his humor.

Bors turns to look at the knight who is practically his brother. "Dagonet."

The knight looks at him, signaling that he has his full attention and so Bors continues.

"She wants to get married and give the children names."

"Women!" comes an exclamation from the outer of their circle and all eyes turn to the scout. "The children already have names, don't they?" he asks, sheathing his sword.

Dag raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at Tristan before turning back to Bors.

"Jes' Gilly. It was too much trouble so… We gave the rest of them numbers."

"That's interesting," says Lancelot, quirking an eyebrow. "And I thought you couldn't count."

Iseult watches as a rare, genuine smile spreads across Dag's face, accompanied by a deep chuckle.

Scars or no, smiling makes him look rather handsome, she has to admit. Even not smiling, he certainly does not look bad, but smiling… If he would smile more often, she's sure he would win some woman over. She'd look past the scars and see the colossal knight for what he is, a gentle giant.

She has not known Dagonet for long, only two days now, but she can see already that he is a good man. Already, he has gained her trust with his compassionate concern for everyone's welfare, including her own. At this point, he's spoken with her more than Tristan has even looked at her.

She glances at the dark knight once more from the corner of her eye. He's looking around, probably trying to keep watch while everyone else talks. She sighs and returns her attention to the others just in time to hear what is, apparently, the last part of Bors' statement.

"… Now that I've got the chance, I… I don't want to leave my children."

Iseult watches as Dag looks at Bors knowingly.

"You'd miss them too much."

Bors has a distant expression on his face as he answers, "I'll take 'em wif me. I like the little bastards. They mean somefing to me."

The smiles that appears on Lancelot's face seems to make Bors realize how sentimental he's sounding and he tries to rationalize what he has said to make it sound more like the mighty warrior he is.

"Especially number three," he proclaims loudly. " 'e's a good fightah."

She smiles. No one could possibly miss the tone of his voice, that of a proud father boasting of his children to anyone who will listen.

"That's because he's mine," Lancelot retorts, grinning devilishly.

The dark-haired woman frowns and watches as Gawain almost chokes on the drink he'd been trying to swallow and as Galahad tries to smother his laughter by covering his mouth. She glances at Dagonet who is giving Lancelot a reproachful look, and she sees Bors' face fall into a scowl.

"I'm going for a piss," he states, standing and walking off.

This proclamation only worsens Galahad's now not-so-hidden laughter and Gawain's efforts not to laugh.

Iseult, for her part, really doesn't see why Lancelot finds it necessary to say such things. Much like Dagonet, she scowls at the dark-haired man.

Lancelot, catching her look, raises an eyebrow at her.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your gaze?" he asks her. She says nothing, but does not avert her eyes.

"I think you have angered her in some way, Lancelot," laughs Gawain. "I'll wager earning her ire is a foul way to die."

She barely restrains a smile at Gawain's words as she continues to stare at the man.

"Is there anything I can do to change your anger towards me, milady? I can be quite persuasive if given the opportunity," he says, one of his brightest and most charming smiles spread over his face. The same one that had probably charmed several women straight into his bed.

Iseult puts on her own smile, momentarily throwing Lancelot off. Then she stands and saunters over to him to the shock of the other knights, the two that she had been seated by in particular.

She stops in front of him and bends down, placing her hands on his shoulders and leans in as if to whisper something to him, but instead speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear. She raises an eyebrow, her smile still in place and unwavering as Lancelot gawks at her, obviously not having expected this response.

"Lancelot, I highly doubt that _anything_ of yours would change my mind," she says, straightening up to the loud guffaws of Gawain and Galahad, as well as Bors who had returned just in time to catch the exchange. Even Dagonet is once more smiling and chuckling, thoroughly amused by the spectacle before him of Lancelot opening and closing his mouth, trying in vain to find a retort through his shock.

Iseult turns to face the others and addresses them. "Now if you all will excuse me. I am going to get what rest I can before morning."

That said she begins walking toward where she had set her saddle down earlier as her makeshift sleep area, only glancing back over her shoulder to see Lancelot return to his senses enough to scowl. She turns forward again, a smile on her face. Bors has been avenged.

Amidst the laughter, two dark eyes watch her walk away, the owner with the tiniest of smirks on his face.

* * *

**Okay, so earlier, I said that this chapter is dedicated to irishfire. She wanted a little of Lancelot flirting so, there it is. ^_^**

**I'm not entirely sure where Iseult came up with that retort, but... Whatever. **

**I think that this is my favorite chapter so far, honestly. I tried to put some extra humor into it since I don't get the chance very often with this story, so...  
Hope everyone liked it.**

**~Kanae~**


	13. A Glorified Dress

**Wow... 3, 697 words. That translates to ten pages on a Word document with size 12 Times New Roman font. Honestly, it didn't seem that long when I wrote it in my notebook, but apparently, while typing it, it expanded. **

**Anyway... I am very sorry for the lack of an update lately. Things have been crazy the past two weeks so... Sorry... **

**For those of you who are still reading it, here is the next chapter. Hopefully the wait won't be so long next time. **

* * *

Chapter 13: A Glorified Dress

As the Roman's estate comes into view, silence falls over the group. Arthur already had sent Tristan scouting ahead to discover how close the enemy might be and to find whatever other information he deemed necessary to assist them.

Iseult had watched him ride off until she couldn't see him anymore— he never did look back— and then she and Dag had talked a little. Neither of them being very talkative people by nature, not much was said, but the silence was one with which they were both comfortable.

It was when the conversations of the other knights stopped that she truly looked up for the first time in quite a bit of riding, worried that something might be wrong. Instead, she had seen the estate.

Now as they get closer, she can see the shabby huts in front of the estate's secure walls. The closer they become, the more details she is able to discern, and what she discerns has her frowning deeply.

By the time that they arrive at the gates, Iseult is thoroughly disgusted. The people dwelling outside the walls of the estate are thin, some of them looking horribly under fed.

As Arthur announces who he is and orders the gates open, the people begin gathering to stare at the group. One of them, an extremely malnourished woman—who is quite obviously pregnant— catches Iseult's gaze and tries to muster a welcoming smile. The warrior smiles back, but inside, she feels sick. She glances over at Dag who gives her a grim nod. He sees it, too.

"It is a wonder you have come. Good Jesus! Arthur and his knights," says a rather plump man wearing a toga.

Iseult can't help but wonder why a man wants to wear a glorified dress. In her village, not even many women had worn dresses.

She watches as the man tries to pet Galahad's horse and as the creature shies away from him. She and Dag exchange another look. Horses have a great sense of what kind of person someone is and they are not usually wrong.

"You have fought the Woads. Vile creatures," the man continues as if nothing had happened while returning his attention to Arthur.

'Takes one to know one, I suppose,' Iseult thinks, glancing over the people gathered around them.

"Our orders are to evacuate you immediately," Arthur says stiffly, clearly not liking the Roman any more than Iseult or Dag.

Iseult observes the man as he looks around and then back to Arthur, a trace of disbelief on his face.

"But, that is impossible."

Arthur ignores him and seems to search with his eyes for something, maybe someone.

"Which is Alecto?"

"I am Alecto," a tall boy of no more than six and ten or seven and ten summers calls from up on the wall.

As the boy disappears from view, the man becomes protective and borderline indignant.

"Alecto is my son," he says. "And everything we have is here in the land given to us by the Pope of Rome."

"Well, you're about to give it to the Saxons," she hears Lancelot retort patronizingly and sees Arthur give him a warning look before addressing the Roman once more.

"They are invading from the north."

The man seems surprised for but a moment before his face becomes impassive once more.

"Then… Rome will send an army!"

"They have. Us," replies Arthur. "We leave as soon as you're packed."

"I refuse to leave."

It is at this that the boy, Alecto walks out the gates to stand slightly behind his father, his mother beside him. At the sight of the woman, Iseult almost sneers, but stops herself.

The woman looks so subservient, as if her own free will has been beaten from her. Her eyes, for the most part, remain on the ground her head covered by a scarf of some kind. Her figure is slight and made slighter still by the way she folds in on herself.

'Is this what Rome does to its women?' Iseult thinks angrily as her hand subconsciously wanders to the scar on her forehead, covered by her hair. Just as quickly, she catches herself and returns her hand to the reigns of her horse.

"Go back to work!" the Roman man yells and immediately Iseult's eyes go to those gathered around them. "All of you!"

The Roman soldiers take up their master's order and repeat them. When that doesn't work entirely, they begin shoving people down who don't comply quickly enough, one of them in particular catches both Iseult and Dagonet's attention. One of the guards shoves down the very same woman the two had observed earlier; the same one who had tried to smile welcomingly at them despite her condition.

Iseult would have dismounted immediately had not Dagonet—who had seen her quite near murderous expression— put a restraining hand on her arm.

Upon her spinning to look at him, he shakes his head. No. This is not their fight.

She holds his gaze defiantly a moment, and he's half-afraid she will jump down anyway, quite possibly dragging him with her. Instead, she turns a pained gaze to the woman she is helpless to assist.

She is still on the ground trying to stand, but no one helps her and there is no way that she can get up without help in her current condition.

Her tear-filled green eyes meet Iseult's dark brown ones and the warrior woman's heart almost breaks. The suffering in this woman's eyes is more than just physical pain, it's much more than that. Her eyes remind Iseult of when she had been observing Dag upon first meeting him. Just as his eyes had, her eyes hold so much pain, so much suffering.

The only two things that prevent her from dismounting right then and there are Dag's hand on her arm and the sudden movement of Arthur dismounting catching her eyes.

She tears her gaze from the woman to watch Arthur as he walks up to the Roman. The man seems slightly nervous but attempts to stare Arthur down despite the fact that he has to look up at him to do so.

"If I fail to bring you and your son back, my men can never leave this island. So you're coming back with me if I have to tie you to my horse and drag you all the way back to Hadrian's Wall myself. My lord," Arthur tacks on mockingly. He then looks to the Roman woman. "Lady, my knights are hungry."

Iseult's already inflamed anger only further rises when the lady touches her husband's arm, silently asking for his _permission_.

"Go," the Roman says to his wife, waving her off as if she is a servant.

She scurries off quickly, leaving her husband to glare at Arthur until he spins around on his heel and starts back inside the walls.

"Come," the man commands his son, grabbing his arm to turn him back as well.

The Iseult's surprise and satisfaction, Alecto shrugs off his father's hand and stays where he stands, watching the knights.

The man doesn't seem to really care and Iseult waits until the Roman is inside before she dismounts twisting her arm free of Dagonet's distracted grasp. As soon as her feet meet the ground, she begins walking to the woman.

One of the Roman soldiers is yelling at the woman to get up but doesn't lift a finger to help her. When Iseult sees him raise his arm, she knows what's about to happen and sprints the rest of the way, barely catching the man's arm before he hits the scared woman.

The man snaps his head around to look angrily at whoever stopped him. Though he is clearly startled to have a woman stare back at him, he continues to glare. Suddenly, Iseult cannot help but remember a similar situation in which she had been the victim and Tristan had been her savior.

"Are you so weak that you must abuse her to show your power?" Iseult finds herself repeating his words from that day, but then decides upon adding a few of her own, "Perhaps you'd like to try the same with me," she suggests, her free hand hovering at her only clearly visible knife.

The man's eyes narrow, but when she releases his arm, he glares at her once more and storms away. Her cold glare bores into his back for a second longer than is absolutely necessary to get her point across before turning her attention to the woman who is visibly shaking. Immediately, her eyes soften.

Now that she's closer to the woman, Iseult can see that she can't be any older than twenty summers, possibly a summer or two younger. Her fiery red hair partially hides her green eyes, but what Iseult can see of them, reveals them to be leaking tears, leaving tracks of white on her dirt smeared face.

Slowly, Iseult kneels, trying her best not to spook the already frightened woman. She keeps her eyes on her, gauging her response to her actions. As Iseult puts one knee on the ground, supporting most of her weight, the woman meets her gaze warily, but does not look away. Taking this as a good sign, she settles on the ground beside her.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Iseult, for her part, is really uncertain as to what to say to her. She really had not planned this far ahead. Had she planned to help the woman up? Yes, of course. Had she planned what she would say to her? No, of course not.

"Th… Thank ya," the woman says finally, breaking the silence. Her voice, though strained and tired is lilting and accented.

"It is nothing," Iseult smiles comfortingly, happy that at least something has been said. She wracks her brain for something more to say and finally stumbles across it. "The Romans seem to believe that they may do whatever they like, and sometimes, they overstep their bounds. Are you hurt?"

The woman seems to hesitate before straightening her legs out in front of her and pulling the hem of her dress up to her knee, revealing a nasty gash on her lower leg.

"I scuffed it when I fell."

Iseult nods, barely keeping her rage from her face at the sight of the wound.

"I have a friend who can look at that if you'll let him," she says, jerking her head in Dag's direction. "He's a healer."

She appears apprehensive a moment but then nods and Iseult gives her, what she hopes, is a reassuring smile.

"My name is Iseult," she offers. "What is your name?"

The woman's eyes widen, almost incredulously, as if amazed that anyone would care to know her name, and Iseult fights herself to keep her composure. There's no need to frighten the woman. It's not her fault after all. Bloody Romans.

"Flanna," she says at last.

"Well, Flanna, it is very nice to meet you."

" 'tis nice a'meetin you, too… Iseult," she replies, stumbling a little over the woman's strange name even as a small smile spreads across her face.

Iseult returns the smile and stands, holding her hands out to Flanna. The red-haired woman places her hands in Iseult's extended ones and allows her newfound friend to help her stand.

Once on her feet, she sways a little, her injured leg and precious burden both making her unsteady. Before her equilibrium can return, a loud shout startles her.

"Answer me!"

Iseult quickly reaches out to steady her and then they both turn to see the origin and find that it is Arthur yelling at a tall, thin man.

Being further away than the rest of the group, they only hear the last part of the man's answer.

"You're from Rome. Is it true that Marius is a spokesman for God, and that it's a sin to defy him?"

Iseult glances at Flanna, her face quite close to betraying her. The Roman pig had spread fear of him by using the people's fear of their God. Even though she is not Christian, she doubts this God could possibly be so cruel.

She looks from Flanna to Arthur who is staring at an elderly man chained to a wooden construction clearly thrown together for the exact purpose it serves now. Arthur points Excalibur at the crowd of people.

"I tell you now," he begins, his voice steady, but holding barely restrained anger. The crowd, noticing it, move back slightly, in fear of the shining blade. "Marius is not of God. And all of you were free from your first breath!"

They all watch as Arthur turns to the man and raises his sword, the crowd gasping in fear. Iseult even hears Flanna's sudden intake of air.

"Don't worry," Iseult says to the woman beside her right before Excalibur makes contact with the chains holding the man. The chains shatter and the man falls to the ground.

"Help this man," Arthur tells the crowd. When no one moves forward, he becomes angry. Why will no one come forward? This is their village elder who had gotten where he was mere second's ago while trying to help them. "Help him!"

Almost immediately, an elderly woman steps forward and begins assisting the man. Arthur's attention returns to the crowd once he see that the man will be helped.

"Now hear me. A vast and terrible army is coming this way. They will show you no mercy, spare no one," he pauses, allowing this to sink in before continuing. "Those of you who are able should gather your things and begin to move south to Hadrian's Wall. Those unable, shall come with us."

That said, he turns to the tall man standing beside him and begins talking to him, but Iseult is unable to read what he says to him. Whatever had been said, the thin man immediately begins telling everyone what they may bring and what they may not bring, and the consequences of moving too slowly.

Iseult turns her attention to Flanna who is looking somewhat pale and her face is tightly drawn.

"Let's get you somewhere you can sit down so my friend can look at your leg, alright?"

She nods, but says nothing as Iseult leads her to a roughly hewn bench amidst the huts and supports her as she sits.

When Iseult sees she is settled, she returns to where her horse is patiently standing. Absentmindedly, she runs a hand over her horse's nose as she looks to Dagonet.

"How is she?" he asks.

He senses her dangerous mood despite her calm façade that falters slightly at his question. Her eyes flash, revealing a mere hint of her anger.

"She is weak, under-fed, and many moons into her pregnancy. Of course, that is currently irrelevant. Her lower leg is gashed. Can you look at it?"

Dag nods and dismounts, lifting his medical bag from the saddle and slinging it over his arm as if it weighs nothing. Immediately, Iseult begins walking back to Flanna, only occasionally glancing over her shoulder to assure herself that the knight is still following.

They see the bench where Flanna is still sitting, just as Iseult had left her. Upon seeing the two approach her, the woman's eyes widen. The man that Iseult walks with is enormous. He is easily head and shoulders above the already tall warrior woman. For a moment, she cannot help but shiver, seeing the scars that mar his face, but then she sees his eyes. His eyes are quiet. Quiet and, yet, somehow, not quite as fierce looking as his scars.

Iseult sees the look on Flanna's face when they come within view, and judging by the look in Dag's eyes, she knows that he saw it, too. He looks tired again and she hopes that Flanna won't scream or anything. Just as she thinks this, though, the woman's face relaxes and she smiles. Iseult raises an eyebrow, puzzled.

The two reach her and Dag stands back a little behind Iseult who kneels by the woman, looking her in the eyes.

"This is my friend, Dagonet. He is the healer I told you of and he wants to help you. Can you raise your skirt enough for him to see the gash?"

Flanna looks at the knight carefully before nodding and pulling her skirt up to her knee, revealing the wound. Iseult stands and watches as Flanna looks up somewhat warily at Dagonet. As if understanding that his height is quite intimidating to the small woman, he slowly kneels down, watching her reaction just as Iseult had earlier.

As soon as he situates himself on the ground, he begins carefully examining her leg. After a few moments, he looks up to the woman.

"I need to clean this or it may get infected," he says, pulling out a cloth and a bottle from his medical bag. He looks at Flanna until she nods, and then uncaps the bottle, pouring some of the liquid into the cloth and then recapping it. As he returns his attention to the woman, he hesitates once more. "This will sting. It will probably hurt like hell, but I promise you that me cleaning it is better than an infection."

Flanna sends a nervous glance to Iseult who is shifting from foot to foot and looking over toward the knights and Arthur, obviously wanting to do something useful somewhere, but not knowing what exactly said useful thing might be. She did however want to be anywhere but here having to watch Dag clean out the wound.

"Will you stay?"

The question immediately snaps Iseult's attention back to the woman. She looks so fragile and almost child-like with her pleading emerald eyes.

Iseult falters a moment, but then sits down and holds her hand out to her. A look of gratefulness appears in Flanna's eyes as she puts her hand in Iseult's. She then turns back to Dag and nods.

He returns the gesture and then begins cleaning the wound as gently as possible. Even still, Flanna is barely fighting down the scream that is trying to escape, and her grip on Iseult's hand tightens.

Iseult, on the other hand, is actually wondering how on earth someone so tiny may have quite possibly broken her hand. Who would have guessed the delicate woman could have such a strong grip?

She looks elsewhere, trying to distract herself, but to no avail. A small whimper from beside her draws her focus back to Flanna. Not knowing what to do to help the woman, she exchanges a look with Dag that only someone who is faced with a situation in which they are unfamiliar with can give. The knight seems to understand and glances up briefly from cleaning the wound to Flanna.

"What is your name?" he asks.

"Flanna," she answers, this time appearing not quite as surprised to be asked for her name.

"As Iseult told you, my name is Dagonet."

"You're one of the Sarmatian knights?" she questions as she bites back another scream when the cloth goes over a particularly bad spot on her leg.

"Yes. I am."

"And you've come to rescue us from the Saxon?"

Dag pauses a moment and says nothing before looking up at her.

"Originally, no. That wasn't what our mission was, but Arthur has said that we will."

He returns to cleaning as Flanna looks around to see the other knights who are more or less stomping around like angry children.

"They are not happy about it," she states in a very matter-of-fact tone before looking at Iseult and then back at the knight tending to her wound. "And you? What do you think?"

Again, he hesitates then continues cleaning without looking up at her.

"I think that Arthur is right. None of you will survive if you stay here."

"And yet some of them seem not to care."

Iseult raises an eyebrow at Flanna's boldness even as the woman shrinks a little when Dag looks up at her with his tired eyes.

"It is not that they do not care. They simply know that this will put many at risk. Travelling with so many people will slow us down and it will be difficult to complete our mission."

Obviously, she had not been expecting such a polite answer but still feels as if she has been scolded.

Why had she said that to the knight? There had been no reason for it. Why, if she had said that to Marius… She shivers involuntarily and takes in a shaky breath. The action catches Dag's attention and he glances up at her briefly.

"Sorry," he says, thinking that he had somehow hurt her.

Flanna merely nods, though, not entirely sure why he has apologized. She should be the one apologizing, yet she refrains.

Dag finishes cleaning and begins bandaging the wound in silence, no one seeming to eager to talk after how the last conversation had ended. As soon as he begins wrapping the gash, Flanna releases Iseult's hand, not missing the tension leaving her face as she does. Clearly, she had kept a firmer grip than she had thought.

When Dag finishes bandaging, he puts away his supplies and stands, looking to Flanna seriously.

"You'll need to gather your things now. Is there someone Iseult or I can find for you to get what you need?"

At his question, the woman's face falls and her shoulders slump a little.

"No. No. There is no one for you to find," she replies sadly. "My husband… He died."

Seeing that she does not elaborate and not wanting to push her. Iseult nods.

"Then I will help you," she volunteers.

Flanna seems uncertain. "You will? But is there nothin that ya must do?"

She shakes her head, the strands that had escaped her braid once more falling in her face. Pushing them back behind her ear, she answers.

"There is nothing that requires my attention at the moment."

"If you're sure…"

"I am. Now let us hurry. There is not much time."

* * *

**Okay... That was a lot of stuff to process and I tried to think of somewhere to split it, but I couldn't so... You got this chapter as one chapter rather than two.**

**So... I'd love to hear you guys' feedback on this. ^_^**

**Thanks.**

**I'll try to update again soon.**

**~Kanae~**


	14. Realizing His Dream

**Not too long of a gap inbetween updates here. **

**Hope my wonderful readers enjoy. ^_^**

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Chapter 14: Realizing His Dream

Iseult and Flanna leave Dagonet to work on whatever he must do in preparation of the return journey to the wall. Flanna leads the way with Iseult trailing only slightly behind.

They arrive at a hut even smaller and in more need of more repair than several of the others surrounding it.

Iseult frowns at the state of disrepair. Is this what Flanna had been forced to live in? Then again, she probably hadn't had anyone to help her with the maintenance of the abode since her husband had died. After all, no one within the small village seems as if they would willingly assist each other, no matter the circumstances, unless Arthur arrives slinging around Excalibur.

When they reach the door of the home, Flanna opens it and walks in, beckoning Iseult to follow her before disappearing inside.

The tall woman looks doubtfully at the size of the hut and the height of the door. Good thing Dagonet hadn't come to help. A half-amused snort escapes her at the thought of the enormous knight trying to maneuver the door. A sigh quickly follows her snort, but without a word or complaint, she hunches down slightly and steps into the home. It is somewhat warily that she straightens until she determines that the ceiling is indeed tall enough for her full height.

Once well inside and straightened out, she allows her eyes a brief moment to adjust to the change of lighting before looking around and taking in her surroundings.

The one-room hut is sparsely furnished in the truest sense. The only furniture in the place is a shabbily built bed, a wooden stool, and a small but sturdy wooden chest shoved against the wall.

Between the furniture, herself, and Flanna, Iseult cannot help but feel crowded. The hut really is quite small. Almost unbearably so, and she can almost feel the walls closing in on her. She has to call upon every bit of her warrior's pride to keep from stepping back outside.

She tries to force her mind anywhere else to keep it occupied on anything except the tightening in her throat and the walls of the room, and ends up looking at Flanna. The woman has knelt down on the floor in front of the wooden chest. When Iseult realizes her intentions, she rushes over and places a hand on the young woman's arm.

Flanna looks at her questioningly, but rather than saying anything, Iseult simply moves Flanna's hands from the chest and shakes her head. The woman sighs, but stands and walks to sit on the bed.

Iseult kneels down and situates her hold on the chest before carefully lifting it and then turning to look at Flanna expectantly, awaiting instructions.

Realizing what Iseult must be waiting for, she scoots over closer to the head of the crudely constructed bed.

"Just set it down here, if ya please."

Iseult simply nods and places the small chest on the bed, beside Flanna. Having done so, she steps back, once more close to the door and fighting her urge to step outside even as the tiny woman's hands gently caress the wooden chest, a small smile on her face. Iseult watches curiously as Flanna opens the box almost reverently, revealing several small items within. The first object, the one that stands out, is a metal ring, which Flanna picks up and runs her fingers over lovingly.

Without looking at Iseult, Flanna speaks.

"My husband and I were not always… We have not always been… We used ta live in a village in the land of Eire. t'was always so beautiful there. The hills were so green and they seemed ta go on forever. Our village was surrounded by the beautiful hills and forests that it was rumored the little people and the fae danced in. At night, if ya listened closely, ya could almost hear their songs as they danced aroun' the mushroom rings."

"It sounds beautiful," Iseult says, not coming across anything else to say about the enchanting image Flanna's lyrical voice and description had evoked.

"t'was," she smiles. "But one day, people came ta our village and burned it ta the ground. So many died that day. Young children, women, elderly. It didn't seem ta matter ta them. They called us pagans, but our village was not pagan at'all. We were, all of us, Christian. The few survivors told them as much, but they did not listen. They chained us together and brought us here to serve Marius. This ring… This ring belonged to me ma. She died a month inta bein' here. She survived the burnin' of our village, but me da didn't, and that was what killed 'er. They loved each other so much. She just couldn't live without him. With her last breath, she told me not to cry for her because she would go to meet him, and she handed me her ring, her wedding ring, and then she just…" Here the woman pauses and breathes in shakily before continuing. "Aidan… My husband…. He said that we should hide tha ring or Marius would have it. He crafted this box ta hide what few possessions we had… We called it our treasure chest," she smiles again even as a distant laugh escapes her. "He said that one day, we would leave this place and then I would wear the ring without fear of losing it to filthy masters…"

At this her smiles disappears and her face becomes pained.

"He was wrong, though. 'We' won't be leaving," she says, as she pulls another object from the chest, another metal ring, this one much larger and much more plain than the intricate designs that adorn the first ring.

"This is all I have left of him. This ring. His wedding ring. Sometimes… Sometimes I wish I had died with him," she chokes out, beginning to cry hard enough that her small frame shakes violently.

'_Please tell me there is some way… For if there is not, I will straightway depart from this miserable existence_.'

Iseult shakes her head. More non-existent memories. From where do they come? Why do they plague her?

She pushes these thoughts from her mind and returns her gaze to Flanna who is still sitting on the bed crying. Her shoulders are slumped helplessly and her head is bowed, sobs still racking her frail body.

Honestly, her heart goes out to the woman. She cannot even imagine what it would be like to lose someone so dear to her. Yet, as soon as she thinks that, she knows it to be a lie.

She may be unable to truthfully know how it feels, but she has imagined. Almost every night, every day, every waking moment in her homeland, she had imagined it, dreamt it, lived with the fear of it. The fear that one day…

Instead of finishing the dark thought, she walks the two steps it takes for her to reach the bed from her position at the door and sits beside the crying woman. Without a word, for there are none to be said, she puts one arm around her shoulders and gently pulls her into a hug. The heartbroken woman continues to cry, the hand not holding the two rings tightly gripping Iseult's shirt.

Almost involuntarily, Iseult raises one hand and begins to stroke Flanna's bright red hair in the same manner she faintly remembers her own mother doing to comfort her when she would cry when the other children had hurt her or called her names.

For a long time, they simply sit like this, Flanna crying into Iseult's shoulder and Iseult trying to find some words to help her new friend. Iseult, in her thirty years, has not known nearly so much pain as the young woman crying into her shirt knows even at her young age of, at the most, twenty summers. She should not know this kind of pain.

Bloody, bloody Romans. They ruin everything and everyone in the pursuit of their conquest over the free world. Why can they not just be happy with what they have and leave everyone else alone?

"Flanna… I cannot know what it is like for you, but— while I did not know your husband— I do know this, he would want you to live and be happy. I'm sure he would hate to see you crying so, and I'm certain he will be overjoyed that you will do as you two could only dream of before. So you must smile because you are realizing his dream."

The effect of Iseult's words is not immediate, but slowly, Flanna stops shaking as badly and her breathing begins to even out. Finally, she stops crying all together and after another few sniffles, pulls back, Iseult's arms falling back to her sides.

A forced laugh escapes Flanna's lips as she wipes her face with her sleeve and rubs her eyes.

"Look at me, a cryin' like a newborn babe on the day that I finally get ta leave this accursed place. What's wrong with me?" she exclaims, looking up to Iseult. "I'm sorry," she apologizes, shifting her gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"No need to be sorry, and, Flanna," Iseult begins, pausing until she looks up at her with her puffy red eyes. "That ring isn't all that you have left of your husband."

Flanna seems to look at her curiously a moment and so Iseult slowly moves her hand and gently places it on the side of the other woman's rounded belly, then pulls it back again.

At this, Flanna looks down, as if just thinking of this and places her own hand on her belly, a warm smile spreading over her face.

"You're right, Iseult. It isn't."

Iseult gives her a closed-mouth smile and stands.

"Now, let's get your things packed so that you and your child can leave this place today."

Flanna looks up at her, a slight glimmer of hope in her eyes, and nods.

* * *

**So... Who liked that? Who didn't? Does Iseult seem a little more human now and maybe a little more different from Tristan?**

**Well, I'd love to hear what you all have to say so reviews are not only welcome, but also highly appreciated. If you could take just a few seconds to tell me what you like and what you don't, that would be fantastic as it helps me to grow and, hopefully, improve as a writer.**

**Hope to update again very soon, but can't promise anything. **

**~Kanae~**


	15. Extreme Prejudice

**Okay. Sorry it took a little while to get this up. It was actually finished being typed Sunday night, but it was really late and I was REALLY tired.**

**Anyway, I did some refining and I got some wonderful advice from Dickonfan and incorporated it into this chapter. I think it helped it out a lot. **

**(By the way, Dickonfan writes some wonderful, wonderful stories and if you haven't read them, you really should.) **

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Chapter 15: Extreme Prejudice

"Iseult…Are you sure about this?" asks Gawain as they stand back a ways, watching Dagonet lift Flanna up onto Iseult's horse.

Iseult adjusts the bow now slung over her shoulder and nods.

"I am much more able-bodied than she and there is not enough room left in the wagons. I can walk if necessary."

The golden-haired knight wants to point out to her that she still seems very thin from her journey and might not be in the best physical condition for such a strenuous activity, but he knows mentioning this would only serve to get her defenses back up. She would take it as him thinking her weak and she might decide to walk the entire way back to the wall. No. He must be clever in his wording.

"Why not ask for a ride from someone? Perhaps Dagonet? Or Tristan even?"

At his name, she seems to stiffen and Gawain instantly regrets having so carelessly thrown the scout's name into the conversation. Had he even said a word to the woman since their match at the wall?

Her eyes darken as she replies with a forced calm.

"I doubt that would go well for either party involved."

"You never know. Maybe he will talk to you if the rest of us are not around," he suggests, only half-way optimistic.

"Maybe…"

"Well, you can at least ask when he returns."

She remains silent but he can see that she is considering it.

"It is… not impossible."

Movement from behind Iseult catches the knight's attention and he watches a moment before returning his gaze to her.

"I would decide quickly. He has returned."

Iseult turns and watches as Tristan rides toward Arthur. Even from here, she can see that he is hunched over slightly. She cannot help but wonder at the cause of the rather uncharacteristic posture. Had he run into trouble? Is he hurt?

Gawain climbs onto his horse and then looks to Iseult who has a worried frown on her face. He follows her line of sight and notices much what she had and wonders much the same. Surely the ever watchful scout is not hurt. There must be another reason for his slouch.

'He must be tired is all… Right?' Gawain thinks even as the doubt starts to slowly seep into his mind.

He looks to Iseult. The woman is still watching the scout with her brown eyes, probably trying to will herself into being able to hear the conversation he is now having with Arthur.

"Iseult," he calls, getting her attention and holding his hand out to her. "Come. I'll get you over there."

She nods and grabs his hand, allowing him to help her onto the horse. Once she is situated, Gawain looks to Dagonet.

"Dag," he barks and the knight turns to look at him, "Tristan has returned."

Dagonet follows Gawain's gaze toward the estate and sees Tristan speaking with Arthur. The knight quickly calls upon one of the villagers to come over and take Mairete's reins. With a nod to Flanna, he walks to his own horse and mounts, nodding to Gawain. Almost instantaneously, they both urge their horses forward, sending them into a canter toward the estate.

By the time they get there and stop their horses, Tristan and Arthur have finished talking and the tattoo of not distant enough Saxon drums echoes loudly across the hills and landscape. All the knights, Arthur, Iseult, and those of the estate stop whatever they had been doing and listen to the strange sound. The sound of death a few of those listening cannot avoid thinking.

"Come on. Get back to work!" demands a voice that breaks the eerie trance. Arthur, the knights, and Iseult all turn to see a guard yelling at two monks walling up the door of a small stone building.

"Back to work," repeats the other guard.

Arthur stares at the monks as they continue to wall up the door and his eyebrows furrow. He draws Excalibur and dismounts. As he walks toward the two monks and the two Romans, Tristan follows him on his horse, offering a silent challenge to any who might try to harm his commander.

Arthur raises Excalibur, pointing at one of the guards with the dangerously gleaming sword.

"Move," he says, continuing to advance.

The guards grip their swords tighter and look around almost nervously, but do not budge.

"Move," Arthur repeats, slightly more forcefully than the last.

Bors rides forwards and gets closer, weapon draw. His presence, to be certain, is an imposing one for the guards. They glance nervously at him until the bigger threat reminds them of its existence.

"Move!" commands Arthur, the sword becoming a little too close for comfort in the guard's opinion and he moves back.

As Lancelot nudges his horse forward, it practically head butts the guard closest to it who barely manages to dodge in time.

Seeing that they had done as he had asked, he points with his sword at the door that is almost completely walled up.

"What is this?" he demands.

"You cannot go in there," one of the monks declares. "No one goes in there. This place is forbidden."

The flat of Excalibur pushing against the man's shoulder is enough to convince him and his monk friend to move as Arthur bids them and they soon find themselves standing by an unhappy Gawain, Iseult behind him.

Iseult dismounts, shoving roughly past the monks even as she draws one of her knives. She holds it in her left hand, ready in case of a fight, though, she doubts that anyone here will challenge the knights or their commander.

"What are you doing?" exclaims an outraged voice that Iseult has already branded in her mind as the Roman pig, Marius. "Stop this!"

She turns, more than happy to stop him herself, but Bors rounds his horse to block the man's way, halting him in his tracks.

When Iseult turns back to Arthur, he is running a hand over the wall.

"Arthur, we have no time," warns Lancelot.

The Roman commander seems to not hear his friends as he continues his examination of the wall.

"Do you not hear the drums?"

At Galahad's question, Arthur turns to face those gathered around him and jerks his head toward the door.

"Dagonet."

The giant knight understands and dismounts, pulling his battle-ax from its holster on his saddle. Stepping up to the door, he gets into his stance, situates his hands on the ax and swings, releasing a yell as he does.

A few of the rocks fall from the top, and Dagonet resumes his stance and swings again, this time his full weight behind the motion as he issues another cry. Even more rocks fall to the man's sheer force. Everyone watches the wall fall, entranced by the almost unnatural power in the man's arms.

Finally, when the wall of rocks has been defeated— felled by his strength and his battle-ax— he shift the ax, holding it effortlessly in one hand as he kicks the door once, testing to see if it is locked. It is and he looks to Arthur for instruction. The commander in turn looks to the Roman guards.

"Key."

"It is locked…" the man begins, looking around uneasily, "from the inside…"

Arthur returns his gaze to Dagonet and nods. The knight leans against the door frame and hunches slightly, his left leg behind him, his right leg bent; his whole frame is positioned to allow a great deal of power to be channeled through his body and to the door.

In preparation, his body tenses and then he kicks out, a loud thud resounding. The door shakes but does not give and so he leans back even further. Once more, his body tenses and this time, he kicks out with even more force than before.

A thunderous crack precedes the door swinging open and the dark look on Dagonet's face worries those standing around.

He moves back to stand behind Arthur who has picked up a torch; Lancelot draws one of his swords and dismounts.

Iseult walks to stand beside Dagonet. The knight glances at her briefly and the look on his face does not escape her. His look is dark, but what could trouble him so?

When Arthur steps through the door, the torchlight illuminating the inside quickly answers this question for her.

Chains, shackles, and sharp implements hang from the ceiling, the dark and rust-stained metal gleaming in the light of the torch.

Lancelot and Dagonet step in right behind Arthur, but Iseult does not follow. Instead, she watches as Gawain looks at the two monks standing in front of him.

"You, you… Go."

The monks look anxious and do not budge so the rather bulky knight grabs one by the collar and shoves them both forward.

"Move!" he barks, shoving them through the door.

Iseult casts one look at Tristan who has ridden closer to the entrance and pulled his sword, once more daring anyone to step forward and meet Death. Seeing that, once again, he will neither look at her nor acknowledge her presence, she steps into the darkness, quickly aligning herself beside Dagonet.

The knight glances down at her and he notices the slight tightening of her jaw and the way her eyes seem to dart around the dark tunnel just as warily as she had in the forest after the Woad attack. What could possibly upset her this much?

He casually allows his hand to bump hers in an effort to get her attention, and she looks up at him.

For the first time, he sees something in her eyes that is very close to fear before her defenses are back in place.

"Sorry," he whispers, trying to continue the ruse that he had accidently hit her hand.

She nods and then averts her eyes elsewhere, anywhere else to keep from having to hold the knight's gaze.

He sees more than the other knights, understands more. If anyone would be able to figure out her weakness, he would. Well, he or Tristan. Of course, the way the scout had ignored her since she had proven that she could accompany them, he probably would not be an issue.

Yet, in fact, it is the scout's fault that she is what she is now. It was his fault that she had become so accustom to open spaces, freedom.

He had taught her about nature how to survive in it. He had always seemed to prefer the wide open to the closed huts. How many nights did they sleep outside under the stars, sitting in their tree? She, leaned up against him and him with his arm around her, keeping her warm despite the cold, bitter wind. How she had treasures those moments in their tree, far from the accusing eyes of the villagers who thought her some sort of demon.

After he had been taken by Rome, she had spent as much time as she possible outside, enjoying freedom for the both of them. The wide open reminds her of that freedom. Freedom and good memories and, in essence, the times she had spent with Tristan. Strangely enough, continuing the habit of being outside and falling asleep in their tree had almost made her feel as if he were closer somehow, as if he were not in a completely different country far, far away.

Even though he is now only outside, being in the rather closed space of dark and forbidding room makes her feel as if he is miles away. At this thought, she cannot restrain the shiver that runs down her spine and she tries to think of anything else, unwittinngly taking a step closer to Dagonet in the process.

'What's wrong with her?' he wonders, continuing to stare at her a moment longer before turning his attention to the stairs he must descend.

Halfway down, a low sound can be heard by all. The closer the group becomes to the foot of the stairs, the louder and more distinct the noise becomes until it is recognizable as a man's voice, chanting.

"Exaudi orationem meam. Exaudi orationem meam."

They reach the bottom of the steps and the room opens up into a wide, open space. For a moment, Dagonet can see Iseult relax, but then her eyes open widely and he hears her sharp intake of air.

"In nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis et in virtute Spiritus Sancti."

Even before he steps down into the room entirely, his chest tightens. Right at the entrance of the stairs is a single dead corpse, strung up with chains. As he looks around the room, several more corpses line the side walls.

Chains hold the thin and rotting corpses to the wall, watching with sightless eyes those who enter. There is one prominent feel to the air.

Death.

Death is in the air. Death is hanging over them. Death is gripping their souls, trying to drag the new arrivals into the same oblivion that the former occupants had been forced.

The massive knight stares at the room, disgust and shock evident on his face. Simply to get his eyes off the grisly scene, he looks to Iseult.

Her face is pale and drawn, her eyes wide. The lighting of the torch makes her appear even thinner than she is and she appears as though she is not far from the fate that these people had met. This thought disturbs the kind-hearted knight enough that he reaches out and places his hand on her upper back, just between her shoulder blades.

She jumps— as if she expects to turn and see Death itself standing behind her waiting to lay claim to her— and she almost flinches away. Upon realizing it is Dagonet— not Death— that has placed his hand on her, she glances up at him gratefully and she takes a small step closer to him. It dawns on him that she, too, must feel how near is Death.

He glances around the dark chamber, keeping his hand on her back to reassure the both of them that at least one other person in the horrid room is alive.

"Gawain," Lancelot says quietly, breaking the silence. He motions for Gawain to pass him the torch and the knight does so quickly.

Finally being allowed a full view of the room, the golden-haired knight looks around disgustedly.

Arthur begins walking forward toward another room. Dagonet follows, moving his hand to Iseult's shoulder and leading her forward while she stares in shock at the ghastly sight.

In all honesty, he cannot blame her nor can he attribute this to her being a woman. No. Even he, a seasoned and scarred Sarmatian knight, has to swallow back the sickening feeling in his stomach.

As they approach the inner room, a skeletal-looking man in a habit steps out and looks at the group scornfully.

"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple?" he says, his voice leaving a cold chill in the air.

"Move," Lancelot orders, shoving the monk out of the way and entering the room; Arthur follows right behind him. The curly-haired knight's eyes pan the room disgustedly, finding what is in this room even more horrible than the last.

Dagonet watches as Arthur crouches next to the wall, but he cannot see at what his commander looks. He does, however, see Lancelot spin around to glare daggers at the man.

"The work of your God. Is this how he answers your prayers?" he spits.

As Dagonet removes his hand from Iseult's shoulder, not wanted to bring her into the room if does not wish to enter.

As he releases her shoulder and steps into the room, panic seizes her and she quickly follows, her hand gripping the back of his sleeve.

The smell and sights that assault her leave her head spinning. She wants so much to run back outside, despite her effort to keep up her façade, but her own terror keeps her there. Her own terror keeps her unable to do anything but stare.

Being a warrior, she by no means has a weak stomach. She has seen and done many things, many horrible things without so much as batting an eyelash. Yet, she has never seen, nor imagined in her darkest nightmares, such sick images as what lay in front of her eyes at this very moment.

What were once people— men, women, children, elderly— are now rotting corpses so disgusting that she can feel a bitter taste rising up in her throat and she has to swallow it back and close her eyes to keep from emptying the contents of her stomach. She leans into Dag's arm, breathing in the scent of his clothes rather than the wretched smell that fills the air.

The knight glances down at her. She looks so fragile and pale, a high contrast to the borderline indifference and defiance to which he had grown accustom. He places one hand on her much smaller one, trying his best to soothe her.

"See if there's any still alive," Arthur commands.

Immediately, Dagonet pats her hand and she begrudgingly releases her grip on his sleeve, stepping back as she does. She keeps her eyes closed, and in doing so, misses the subtle look that Dag sends to Gawain who steps forward, taking Dagonet's place and putting an arm around her shoulders.

Iseult jumps, her eyes snapping open and she only relaxes upon discovering that it is merely Gawain. For some reason, she is not quite as comfortable with the lion-like knight as she is with his gigantic brother, but she is still not uncomfortable and she leans back slightly, but does not shut her eyes this time.

Instead, she watches as Dagonet lifts one of the heavy grates that leads down and almost gags at the sight and the smell. He steps back quickly and covers his mouth, looking away.

Lancelot, in the meantime, hacks one of the chains for the cages low down on the walls and moves the grate in front of the opening.

"How dare you set foot in this holy place!" one of the monks says, trying to force Lancelot up, but the knight has different plans and runs the disturbed monk through with _extreme_ prejudice.

As he withdraws his sword and the man crumples to the ground, one of the other monks points to the lifeless form.

"There was a man of God."

"Not my God!" Lancelot exclaims angrily even as Iseult watches Dag lift another grate.

"This one's dead," Dagonet states.

"By this smell, they are all dead," Gawain's voice comes from beside her. He moves his arm from around her and steps forward, but spins around on the monks. "And you. You even move, you join them."

He then continues forward, as Arthur looks into yet another cage. Just then, Dagonet swings open another grate and looks in.

"Arthur!" Dag exclaims, an almost happy tone to his voice.

Everyone turns to look at him and he quickly reaches down into the small pit and lifts out a sickeningly thin and bruised boy with curly brown hair. He sits him down on the stone.

The boy looks at him frighteningly and Dagonet bends down slightly, pointing at the child as he does.

"You must not fear me."

The boy seems to focus on him for a moment, but then looks away. Iseult starts to step forward to help Dag, but he holds a hand up.

"Iseult, stay over there," he instructs her, thinking about the fact that she is in no condition to see the rather grotesque sights within the other pits he had already checked. Upon him gesturing to the other pits, she realizes why he has told her to stay where she is and does so without complaint.

Gawain hunches over with the torch and looks inside yet another cage and finds nothing but dead bodies.

Not a moment later, though, Arthur bends over, examining one of the other cages when he comes face to face with a frightened pair of eyes. Seeing Arthur's reaction, Lancelot, too, crouches down. Arthur passes him the torch he had been holding and then stands. He goes into a stance and then brings the full weight of Excalibur down on the chain that holds the grate against the wall, trapping the woman within its confines.

Dagonet, turns around to look at Iseult and when she meets his eyes, he speaks.

"Iseult, go outside quickly and tell them to get some water ready. We will be out shortly."

She nods and without a word, hurries out of the room, and toward the stairs. She ascends them two at a time, making herself to ignore the feeling of the walls closing in on her. Instead, she forces herself to focus on the task Dagonet had given her. Right now, what is important is getting water for those two people down there: the girl and the young boy.

A few more steps and suddenly she is outside, breathing in the cool, fresh air.

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**Hope you all liked this chapter. I will try to update very soon. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	16. Heroes

**Okay. Sorry it's been a little bit of a gap between. **

**Hope you guys enjoy this one.**

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Chapter 16: Heroes

Upon seeing her face in the darkened doorway, he immediately notices how pale she appears. He watches her as she steps out from the building, trips, and falls, barely throwing her hands out in front of her in time to keep her face from making contact with the ground.

His first reaction is one that surprises him slightly. One that had been long dormant since he had left Sarmatia.

He had almost sheathed his sword, dismounted, and rushed over to help her up, just as he had so many times when they were younger. She had been forever falling or tripping and he would stop what he was doing to make sure that she was okay.

Amazingly, as strong as his first reaction is, he manages to subdue it and remain impassive except for the slight hint of something saying otherwise in his eyes. He knows very well that were he to sheath his sword and dismount, the Romans standing around might become bold and try something. Hers', his brothers', and Arthur's safeties depend upon him remaining calm and imposing. That is his job.

On the other hand, he really has no problem with Galahad carrying through with the reaction that he had managed to suppress. With he and Bors still mounted, it isn't as if Galahad dismounting takes away from the threat to the Romans. The pup couldn't look intimidating if he tried, after all. So with him and Bors still a threat, the Romans would try nothing against anyone.

Galahad kneels beside the woman and asks quietly, "Are you alright?"

She looks up at him wearily, her eyes still somewhat haunted, and the young knight has to fight down the urge to ask her what she had seen that could possibly shake her so.

"I am fine. I tripped is all," she breathes getting herself in a sitting position. "What is important is that Dagonet said to get water."

"Water?" the knight asks, his eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement.

Iseult nods tiredly.

"Yes, water. There are two people, a young boy and a girl who looks to be barely over twenty summers. They were down there in that… that hellhole.

At her statement, his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. He stands quickly and immediately turns around to where Jols and Horton stand.

"Jols, get two water skins quickly!"

Not knowing the situation, but hearing the urgency in Galahad's voice, he nods. Without question, he runs over to the supply horses, dragging Horton along behind him.

Seeing that Dagonet's orders are being carried out, he turns back to Iseult who has gotten some of the color back in her face and has managed to get back on her feet.

She notices Galahad's concerned countenance and nods to assure him that she is fine. He seems to relax a little and returns to his horse.

Iseult looks up just in time to catch Tristan's gaze and, for a moment, she is almost convinced that they two are the only people existing in this place. The images of the underground torture room temporarily leave her and she is simply staring at him.

His face is as unreadable now as it always seems to be, but his eyes betray him. She almost instantly recognizes the expression in them.

So many times she had seen that same look in his eyes when they were younger, and now, he has finally revealed it to her once again. Concern. He is concerned for her.

Straightening up, she nods to him almost imperceptibly and he returns the gesture before looking elsewhere.

Despite the dark circumstances, she almost wants to smile. True, he had not spoken to her, but he had— intentionally or no—proven that he is not completely cold toward her. On some level, he still feels concerned about her well-being. She counts this as progress.

Hearing the sound of footsteps, she moves from being in front of the door and stands off to the side, waiting.

Not long after she has moved, Lancelot, carrying Excalibur, steps out of the stone building and throws down into the snow the torch he had been holding. It takes no one outside any great amount of time to see how disgusted he is at this moment, and, once more, Galahad has to stop himself from asking.

Even if he had been unable to keep from asking the question, his answer would have cut him off quickly for almost as soon as Lancelot steps aside, Arthur emerges from the gloom and in his arms is a pale young woman with dark hair. Following Arthur is Dagonet, carrying the too thin young boy, cradled in his arms, his ax held in front of him with both hands, using it as a support.

As soon as Dagonet sets the boy down, he kneels beside him and Iseult quickly walks over to them, her eyes unable to move from the boy.

He can be no older than nine or ten, at most, eleven summers. A boy his age should be heart and running around playing and adventuring, not so thin that his skin is pulled taut over his bones.

She only tears her stare from the boy as she catches movement at the door. Turning, she sees Gawain shove the two monks outside. She cannot refrain from noticing that the two men look even crazier outside than they had in the dungeon.

Unable to stare at the deranged men any longer, she returns her eyes to the boy, just as Horton appears with a water skin and hands it to Dagonet.

The giant knight looks at her imploringly and she understands. Kneeling down on the opposite side of the boy from where Dag sits, she ever so gently puts one hand behind the child's back and lifts him into a sitting position, a dark and disgusted shiver running down her spine at the feel of the child's bones under her hand.

Dagonet does not notice her shiver and simply nods to her gratefully. He then cups the boy's face in his left hand. With his right, he meticulously pours water into his left, using his hand as a funnel to assist the boy in drinking.

After allowing the boy to drink what he can, he pulls back the water skin, releases the boy's chin and hands the skin back to Horton. He then takes the boy from Iseult, holding him in a sitting position with one arm.

Iseult remains kneeling, staring at the boy, her anger rising with every rise and fall of her chest.

"His arm… is broken," the Bishop's aide breathes, clearly horrified.

Both Dagonet and Iseult eyes are instantaneously drawn to the child's arm and then they exchange tired glances. Iseult closes her eyes and sighs while Dagonet puts a gentle hand on the boy's face.

"And his family?" Horton asks, breaking them both from their thoughts.

Dag answers him with a shake of his head, a dark look on his face, before looking to where Arthur holds the girl.

"She's a Woad."

Tristan's voice is low as he sheaths his sword, glancing around at this fellow knights. Iseult turns to look at him, a bit of a frown on her face at his words. It is as if he condemns her for being what she is.

"I'm a Roman officer. You're safe," Arthur assures the girl. "You're safe."

"Stop what you are doing!" Marius yells, walking over angrily.

Arthur lays the girl down, the Roman's wife taking his place, and he stands.

"What is this madness?"

"They are all pagans here!" exclaims Marius.

It is here that Galahad decides to chime in, "So are we."

At this, Marius becomes even more upset.

"They refuse to do the task God has set for them. They must die, as an example!"

"You mean they refused to be your serfs!" Arthur yells, enraged.

Marius looks at him with contempt and disgust, as if the man's anger is not deserved and the reason not worth such anger.

"You are Roman. You understand. And you are a Christian!" he rebukes Arthur before turning on his wife who begins to stand, stepping in front of the girl protectively. "You! You kept her alive!"

As he hits his wife to the ground, Dagonet quickly uses his free hand to grab Iseult's arm as he had earlier. Seeing that she would be unable to reach him and beat him as he deserves, she instead begins to reach for one of her knives to end this tyrant's reign. Yet, before she can even touch one finger to the handle of the knife, Arthur punches the Roman in the face, sending him sprawling.

In one smooth motion, the Roman commander pulls his sword from the ground where Lancelot and thrown it and moves the blade to rest at Marius' neck.

"My lord!" one of the guards exclaims, starting to draw his sword.

"No! No, stop!" the swine exclaims nervously before looking up at Arthur, pure hatred burning in his eyes."When we get to the wall, you will pay for this heresy."

Arthur grabs the man by the collar, pulling him up to a sitting position.

"Perhaps I should kill you now and sear my fate," he says dangerously, clearly considering it.

Iseult and Dagonet—who is still holding her arm out of shock—exchange surprised glances, as do most of the other knights, Lancelot and Tristan excluded. Arthur does not threaten people, but certainly not Romans. He is Roman. Why would he?

Their ponderings, however, are broken by a voice.

"I was willing to die with them. Yes, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God's wish that these sinner's be sacrificed. Only then can their souls be saved."

Arthur, the knights, and Iseult all turn their attention to the man. Truthfully, they are all in shock. How is it possible for a human being to be so deluded, so far twisted as to believe that this is okay? That harming others to 'save' them is okay.

"Then I shall grant His wish," Arthur say. His voice is flat and unemotional, but a fool could easily notice the icy, burning rage within him. "Wall them up."

"Arthur," Tristan's quiet voice warns.

Iseult pivots on her feet to turn her gaze to him. She can see the worry in his eyes. He is tired and worried. Worried that the Saxon will catch up with them.

"I said wall them up!" Arthur yells, completely incensed.

She continues to look at Tristan even as he bows his head in defeat and turns his horse away, riding a little ways from the group.

She cannot take her eyes from him even when the villagers begins rushing forward to happily carry out Arthur's orders. Even as the demented monks began yelling about defilers and sinners, she does not turn.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder and it is only this which finally manages to turn her attention from him.

Turning, she sees that it is Dagonet. As she is looking at him, he glances at Tristan and then back at her.

"You should go to him," the knight says gently, his eyes soft.

She looks back to Tristan.

For a moment, she debates with herself on whether she will do as Dagonet suggests. He has not attempted to talk to her since they had left the wall. Yet, she cannot help remembering earlier when she had seen the look in his eyes. The concern.

She continues her internal argument for long enough that Dagonet is unsure that she will even answer. Her mind is made up, however, when she sees Tristan bring a hand to his face and rub his eyes tiredly.

She stares a mere breath longer before turning back to Dagonet. He looks at her questioningly, silently inquiring of her intentions. When she nods, a corner of his mouth upturns into a slight smile.

"When you volunteered to let Flanna ride your horse, I had decided that I was going to let you ride with me on my horse, but it seems that I will be needed elsewhere tending to the girl and the boy. You should ask Tristan if he would allow you to ride with him."

Once more she nods and then stands, stretching once to help loosen the tension in her back before glancing once more at Dagonet.

"Wish me luck."

"You have a knife," the knight jokes. "Besides, you seemed to hold your own against him earlier."

She simply smirks in response, then turns, and begins her walk over to where Tristan is sitting on his horse, watching the horizon line.

About a third of the way over, she sees an almost unnoticeable movement signaling her that he had finally realized her presence. She pretends not to notice that he has noticed her and keeps walking perfectly normally.

Once she is close enough that it is confirmed that she is indeed coming over to see him, Tristan turns in his saddle to watch her approach. She comes to a stop a foot or two from the side of his horse's flank. He glances at her from the corner of his eye. At first, she merely stands, as if she too is scanning the horizon line for the Saxons that are fast approaching, but then she begins to shift nervously from her left foot to her right.

'So she has something on her mind then,' he thinks, yet still she does not speak.

For a several more moments, they stay like this in an awkward silence until Tristan turns his horse a little to look at where Arthur is lifting the girl into a wagon. He had advised against anymore wagons than were absolutely necessary, but apparently, one more was necessary for the boy and the young woman.

Tristan frowns. He knows better than any of them that they will never be able to outrun the Saxons transporting all these people. It simply cannot be done. The Saxons will come upon them and slaughter everyone: elderly, man, woman, child, Roman, Briton, Sarmatian. They are not fussy about who their prey are at any given moment. They simply enjoy killing. As Lancelot and Gawain had stated upon the knights learning of Saxon invasion, 'The Saxons only claim what they kill, and they only kill everything.'

Unconsciously, his mouth moves into a frown as he watches the Woad girl. His frown does not in the slightest go unnoticed by Iseult.

"Why do you look at the poor girl that way? She has suffered much at the hands of the Roman pig," she asks.

"She is a Woad."

"She's a person. It doesn't make a difference what kind of person."

She sees a rare flash of anger in Tristan's eyes.

"You do not know of what you speak. The Woads are violent, blood-thirsty demons of this land."

"Similar to what Rome would say of our people."

"There is a difference. Do you know how many knights have died because of them?"

Iseult catches the subtle rise to his voice. Not many others would have heard it, but she does. She shakes her head and sighs.

"She's still a person."

"And the knights weren't?"

Once more, she shakes her head. This is not the first conversation she would have preferred them having. She has a feeling that much of this is because he is exhausted and irritable. She exhales tiredly.

"You don't understand what I'm saying, Tristan."

"You do not and cannot know what we have gone through at their hands."

"And I'm not pretending to. I know that I cannot know that. I am sure that all of you have seen horrible things, watched people that you knew and were good friends with die right in front of you, and I'm sorry that it happened. But you must think about it from their point of view. They are natives to this land. Rome is trying to take over what is rightfully theirs. They will fight whoever comes at them. There is nothing against our people personally. They simply fight who Rome sends to try to suppress them. How many other nation's people forced into Rome's servitude did our ancestors kill while trying to protect our own land? Is it so different?"

He is silent, clearly agitated but trying to calm himself.

They remain in silence until Iseult sees him looking over the group of people gathering around the wagons. She perceives the slight downturn of his mouth and despite the previous conversation, she tries to speak to him again.

"What are you thinking?"

He gazes out over the people for so long that she isn't sure that he will answer, but finally he sighs and glances at her.

"All these people. We won't make it. The Saxons will overtake us."

"What else could we do? Leave them? They need our help."

At this, he seems to realize something for the first time.

"Where is your horse?"

The question throws her off momentarily, her eyebrows scrunching in surprise at the odd question.

"One of the women was pregnant. She's riding because she can't walk and there is no more room in the wagons.

At her answer, Tristan sighs and looks away. This time it is her turn to be irritated.

"What would you have had me do, Tristan? Make her walk in her condition?"

"In this world, it is survival of the fittest. If you are not fit, you cannot survive. Those who try to help them are pulled down with them. We are being pulled down. We will all be killed at Saxon hands."

"How can you _say_ that?" she asks incredulously.

He simply shrugs. "It is true."

"Arthur is saving, protecting these people from those who would kill them."

"Arthur is a brave leader. He is a good leader. All of us, we would follow him anywhere, but this," he says, his eyes panning over the ragtag group of people assembled around the wagons, "is a mistake."

His words are like a knife to her heart, twisted and then viciously pulled out. They hit her with such force that she almost staggers back, but manages to hold her ground.

When his eyes return to her next, he almost visibly flinches. Her face is cold, emotionless. An almost perfect mask, but her eyes. Her eyes tell a different story. They are filled with pain.

"Arthur only does for them what you did for me so many years ago. When you saved me, protected me from those who would harm me, kill me, that was a mistake, too?"

He realizes what she has made the connection to and for the first time he realizes what he has said. The look on his face is shock and before he can manage to gather his wits enough to respond, she spins around on her heel and walks off.

He watches her leave and his face falls. He had known this would happen. Had been waiting for it. Expecting it. Trying to prevent it by distancing himself. If she couldn't realize what he is now, she couldn't look at him with disgust. He had known it would happen eventually though. Only a matter of time. He had known. The only difference? He had hurt her in the process of her realizing what he is now.

When they were younger, she had looked up to him like some hero, but eventually, all heroes must fall, and today, he imagines, he has fallen.

And so he watches as she leaves and then tears his eyes away from her retreating form, looking out over the hills from which the enemy would soon arrive.

* * *

**Okay... So that chapter didn't exactly go as I had planned but... I don't think it wanted to be written that way. The story went the way it wanted.**

**So who is mad at me and ready to stone me? Please don't. It won't help anything, I promise you. **

**You had to have known after fifteen years there would be some issues. :P**

**Well, I will try to update again this weekend so don't stone me yet. haha.**

**~Kanae~**


	17. Adorable

**Told you guys I'd try to update quickly. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.**

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Chapter 17: Adorable

She walks away from him quickly. Almost unthinkingly, she walks toward where Gawain is mounted on his horse, her mind spinning.

What had happened? How did everything go downhill so quickly?

The blond knight sees the expression on her face and knows that something must have happened. Looking a little further back, he sees a likely source. The scout watches after her and, even from where Gawain sits on his horse right now, he can almost sense his brother's tiredness.

What had happened?

She reaches him relatively quickly and he tries to force a smile.

"Can I help you, Iseult?"

"I hate to ask this of you, Gawain, but may I ride with you?"

He acts puzzled, as if he doesn't know why she's asking him.

"I thought you were going to ask Tristan."

He watches as she looks over her shoulder at Tristan.

"I was."

"Did something happen?" he asks, concerned.

Suddenly, the ground becomes more interesting to her than holding eye contact and she answers, "I'd rather not discuss it now."

"Well," the lion-like knight says, forcing yet another smile. "Who am I to deny assistance to such a beautiful Sarmatian woman?"

She gives him a weak smile as he holds his hand out to her and helps her up behind him.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks.

She nods. "I'm fine… And… Thank you, Gawain."

"It's the least I can do."

Not a moment later, they hear Arthur's clear strong voice and both turn to see where he stands upon a crate in front of the caravan.

"Everyone, we must move quickly. Is everyone ready to depart?" There follows a general murmur of agreement and then he speaks again. "Then let us leave and begin our journey to the Wall."

Immediately, the wagons and horses all start forward. She wraps her arms around Gawain's torso as the horse starts forward. For some time, they ride in this manner, complete silence enveloping them, but finally Gawain speaks.

"I may not be a good a listener as Dagonet—I don't know any who are— but if it would help ease your distress, I will do my best," he says, partly joking and partly being serious.

For several more long moments, silence reigns, but just when he is beginning to think that she will not answer, she does.

"He said that Arthur saving all these people is a mistake. That me giving my horse to Flanna was a mistake. He said it is survival of the fittest and those who aren't fit didn't survive and that those who help them don't survive either…" she says and pauses. "Gawain… Can I tell you a story?"

"I am all ears for you, milady," he smiles, teasing her.

"You have seen the birthmark on my face, yes?" she asks, her voice seeming distant.

Not seeing her line of thought, he is somewhat puzzled but answers her.

"Yes. I have seen it. What of it?"

"In my village, a mark such as this is believed to be a sign of the Evil One."

"I see," he nods, still lost as to where she is going with such information.

"It was a source of constant beatings for me," she says, her voice as quiet as the breeze. "The adults of the village. Most of them wanted me killed because they believed that I would bring evil upon them."

"That's horrible. Surely your parents must have persuaded them otherwise."

"I'm sure they would have, but my father died serving Rome days before his term was to end. I never met him. My mother found out she was pregnant with me almost a month after his death. She travelled back to our village with one of the knights returning and later married him. He had been a close friend of my father. When she gave birth to me, my stepfather was horrified when he saw my birthmark. He said that my mother should throw me into the lake and let me drown, but she would not hear of it. For several years, I grew up sheltered and protected by my mother, hated and occasionally slapped by my stepfather. He was not a bad man, not really. Merely frightened."

Gawain winces. "I am sorry to have brought it up."

"It is alright. The first part of my life, I was more or less safe, but then my mother died giving birth to what would have been my half-brother. Both she and the babe died. My stepfather blamed me. He said it was my evil that had killed them, and he cast me out to fend for myself. I was eight summers old. I knew nothing of how to survive on my own. Thankfully, one of the elders took pity on me. She was an older woman but she did not believe that I was evil. She cared for me. She taught me how to find herbs and other things that I could eat. A few seasons after, she died and I was alone again, but this time I knew how to at least find food. What I didn't know was how to protect myself." Here she pauses and takes in a shaky breath before continuing,

"One day, not long after she passed… I don't know how or why… Maybe the adults had talked about it too much or their children had just started to believe it, but either way… One day… The warrior boys chased me. They were planning on killing me. I didn't know how to defend myself, so I ran, but eventually they caught me. They bound me with ropes and they were trying to decide whether to burn or drown me. They finally decided that they would drown me. They threw me into the lake. I thought I would die. I couldn't swim under normal circumstances, but I certainly couldn't with my arms and legs bound."

"What happened?" Gawain asks, horrified yet entranced at the same time. "I mean… How are you still alive?"

"Sadly, I don't remember exactly what happened. I suppose I passed out from lack of air. What I do remember, though, is opening my eyes to see a pair of amber ones hovering above me. The next thing, I had flipped myself over and was coughing out water. I remember a rough hand patting my back to try to help me dislodge the water that was still in my throat, in my lungs. When I finally managed to purge all of the water from my lungs and throat that I possibly could, I remember collapsing. Somewhere in the back of my mind as I began to black out, I heard someone tell me that I would be safe now, and then I fell back into unconsciousness."

Gawain hears her sigh and he wonders if she will say more.

"And what happened then?"

"I did not awake for many days, but when I finally did, there he was. The boy who would later become my best and only friend."

"Tristan?" Gawain gasps, almost in shock.

She nods. "Yes. He was not one of the warrior boys that had caught me. He saw what they had done and jumped in after me. He saved me. Saved me from those who would have killed me. After I had recovered enough, he taught me how to defend myself, and then almost a year later, Galvin— our village leader— began teaching me as well. When Tristan was taken, Galvin continued to teach me, but it was Tristan who taught me first."

"I see."

"I have told you all that and probably more than I had originally intended, to say this: He protected and defended me from those who would have killed me. He did the same for me that Arthur does now for these people. What is the difference?"

Gawain smiles sadly, finally understanding her line of thought.

"Tristan tends to think in a very matter of fact way. While I do not agree with him on survival of the fittest per se, I do know he is right about one thing. With this many people, we will never outrun the Saxons. Do you hear their drums?"

"How could I not? I have ears do I not?"

"Well, Tristan simply knows that with all these people, we will be caught and we will have to fight."

"But what else could we do? Leave them?"

Gawain sighs, "No. We could not, but there will be consequences for it."

"Then what—"

"I don't know what Tristan was like when you first knew him," begins Gawain, "but fifteen years is a long time. People change."

There is silence for a moment and he is somewhat surprised when he feels her rest her head against his back.

"He couldn't have changed that much."

"Battle can be hard, and watching your brothers fall all around you… It affected all of us."

"He couldn't have changed that much," she repeats, unable to reconcile the Tristan of her childhood and the Tristan of today.

"Maybe he hasn't changed as much as you think," he says, trying to hide the doubtful note in his voice. "Why don't you give him another chance?" He waits a moment for her answer, but none comes. "Iseult?" he calls as he looks over his shoulder, craning his neck to see that she has fallen asleep against his back. He turns to look forward again and a soft smile spreads across his face.

"Well, look at this. Isn't that adorable?" says a familiar voice from beside him. "Are you two comfortable?"

He turns to see Galahad grinning like an idiot. Because of the side on which Galahad is, Gawain realizes that he must not be able to see that Iseult is asleep.

"Shh. Galahad, not now. She sleeps."

Galahad seems surprised and looks over to see that she is indeed asleep. He then looks back to Gawain sheepishly and quickly rides ahead.

Gawain shakes his head. For the life of him, he's really not sure what's wrong with the pup. How could anyone ever be so clueless?

He sighs even as another amused smile spreads across his face. When he looks up again, he sees Tristan and catches his eye. The scout looks at him indifferently and then looks away.

Gawain shakes his head and looks over his shoulder again.

"You've got your work cut out for you, I hope you realize."

He receives no answer from the sleeping woman other than a light snore. Smiling, he returns his gaze forward and watches as the scout glances back at them once more before sending his horse ahead to lead the group.

As Gawain looks up at the rapidly darkening sky, he suddenly has a feeling in the pit of his stomach that dark happenings are on the horizon.

What he cannot know, though, is that forces have been set into motion that cannot be undone and those in the way of them have much to fear and even more to lose.

* * *

**That sounds ominous... Well, anyway.**

**Now you all finally know how she and Tristan became friends. Was anyone surprised like Gawain? Disappointed? I hope not the latter. Haha. **

**Hope everyone liked the chapter. Once more, I will try to update soon.**

**~Kanae~**


	18. Silence

**Okay... I know that everyone probably wants to stone me right about now, but I promise that I have been SUPER busy. I have not had a minute to myself and have been trying to type this little by little until I could get this chapter done. I've had it written for close to a month, but I just couldn't ever find time to type it.**

**As a warning, I do have the next two or three chapters written out, however, I fear it may be the same issue of finding time to type the chapters. I will try to update in a much more timely manner than what I have been here lately, but... I fear my workload will not be decreasing anytime soon, so... I will update whenever I can. **

**Well, I hope that this long delayed chapter is enjoyed. Now, everyone needs to thank Dickonfan who is, as of this chapter and hopefully forward, my beta. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**

* * *

Chapter 18: Silence

They had been riding for some time before Gawain feels her stir. After a few more minutes, her grip around his torso tightens, and another moment later, she sits up, one hand releasing her grip on his shirt to rub her eyes.

"You are awake now?" he asks good-naturedly, a smile appearing.

"How long have I slept?"

"Quite some time. You had Arthur and Galahad worried. They found it necessary to continue checking up on you."

"You should have woken me."

Gawain chuckles, "No. You needed to rest."

Silence resumes until a new voice breaks it.

"I see you are awake, Iseult," the voice says, pointedly avoiding the term 'lady' for fear of offending her.

She turns to her left to meet the tired yet still determined green eyes of Arthur.

"Yes."

"Are you well? You are not ailing?"

"I was simply tired from my journey. It was a long many months."

"I imagine so," he agrees. Silence descends upon them and it is a moment before he continues. "It was brought to my attention earlier that you may have your horse back now."

Immediately, Iseult stiffens, worry gripping her. Why could she have her horse back? Had something happened to the young woman?

Arthur, seeing her reaction, realizes that what he has said has caused her to be concerned rather than relieved and continues quickly.

"There is nothing wrong. I was informed that you were riding with Gawain and was told the cause of it. We stopped and rearranged slightly and found room for the woman…"

"Flanna," Iseult volunteers.

"Pardon?"

"Flanna. Her name is Flanna."

Arthur nods. "Yes. We found room for her in one of the wagons. I would have told you earlier but thought it best to let you sleep."

She nods, but offers nothing further in way of reply. Another silence comes over the group and Arthur looks around over the people before returning his gaze to Iseult, a thought nagging at his mind.

"You said you were tired. Did you not sleep upon your arrival at the wall?"

"No. I did not sleep before leaving the wall for fear of sleeping too long and missing you as you left on your mission. I could not afford to make that mistake."

"I see," he says nodding and looking forward. Silence returns a moment before he looks to her again. "Why were you so determined to accompany us?"

"Would you not, were it your friend?" she replies, looking at him and making eye contact.

The expression he sees in her eyes almost makes him catch his breath. Looking into her eyes is like looking into the depths of a fire and watching the wood burn. This is the view into her spirit, he is certain. Such intensity is difficult to look at for extended periods and suddenly uncomfortable, he nods, clears his throat, and looks away.

"Yes, well," Arthur says breaking the awkward silence. "I will retrieve your horse and—"

"There is no need, Arthur," begins Gawain. "I will ride up there."

"Alright."

Gawain nudges his horse to pick up the pace a little and they leave Arthur.

When they reach Iseult's horse, whom Jols had been leading while riding his own, Gawain slows his horse to keep pace alongside them.

"Will you be wanting to ride, Iseult?" Jols asks upon seeing that she is awake.

By way of answer, Iseult gracefully moves from Gawain's horse to her own. Both men blink a few times, a little surprised at the ease with which she moves, but then Iseult looks to Jols and holds out her hand for the reins. He hands them to her without a word.

"Thank you, Jols," she says, nodding to him.

He nods back in reply.

"She's a fine horse. I can tell you've taken good care of her. What's her name?"

"Mairete."

He nods once more and silence falls over the group.

After several minutes, Gawain looks over at Iseult. She is glancing around the frozen landscape, taking in her surroundings. Turning to look forward, he almost smiles upon seeing Tristan doing much the same, his hawk perched on his arm.

He can't help but sigh. What had happened earlier had upset her and, he suspects, Tristan as well, though he honestly cannot attest to the scout acting any different than his usual. Regardless of the scout's seeming indifference, Gawain is almost certain that Tristan, too, has been affected by Iseult's earlier conversation with him which had ended so badly. Truth be told, just knowing what had happened between Iseult and Tristan saddens him and he was not even a party to it. The idea of them having such a bad conversation distresses him for some reason. The fact that these two had apparently been best friends—at least by Iseult's estimations—only serves to pain him further.

From what Iseult had confided in him, she had practically worshipped the scout, though gods know why. But then again, he does know why. Even as distant and unattached as Tristan is, he has always put his brothers first. His current haggard appearance gives proof of that.

Suddenly, he cannot restrain himself from speaking his thoughts on the matter.

"You know, you really should try talking to him again," he says quietly, finally breaking the silence. "I am sure he is… unhappy about how the last conversation ended between the two of you."

Iseult sighs tiredly and reaches up to rub her eyes. "Earlier, I was merely tired and upset. I have no intention of giving up because of one bad conversation, I assure you, Gawain."

"I am glad you do not give up so easily. That may be a good quality to have," smiles Gawain, trying to lighten her mood. "I am sure things will work out as they should."

Iseult opens her mouth to respond, but another voice interrupts her.

"Hold!" Arthur calls from the front of the caravan. The wagons stop and then he speaks again. "Knights!"

Gawain, Iseult, and Jols all turn their eyes toward the man, and they watch as he gestures for the knights to come forward.

The golden-haired knight stares at his commander a moment longer before giving Iseult a smile and a nod and riding toward Arthur.

Iseult watches as he and the others ride forward. Dag and she exchange nods as he rides by, having heard Arthur's call and climbed out of the wagon and onto his horse. Her eyes linger on the form of a certain dark scout before turning her horse, having every intention of checking on Flanna. Just as she has turned the horse, though, she hears someone call her name.

Turning forward again, she sees the knights turned in their saddles looking at her from up ahead. It takes her no time at all to realize Dagonet had called her.

She stares at them a moment longer, uncertain of what to do, before Arthur waves for her to join them.

Thinking that something might be wrong, her eyebrows furrow. She urges Mairete forward at a fast trot. Upon reaching them, Dagonet discreetly moves his horse over ever so slightly, ensuring that the only open space for her is between him and Tristan.

Realizing his motive, she gives him a discreet glare, and he merely upturns one corner of his mouth in amusement. Casting one look toward Tristan—who is looking at Arthur without a single glance in her direction— she moves into the space between he and Dagonet.

As soon as she looks to Arthur, he addresses her in a kind, yet stern manner.

"Iseult, though you are not one of my knights, you have travelled with us in warrior capacity and you have sworn to follow my commands. For this reason, know that, should I call my knights forward, I wish you to come as well."

She nods her understanding and Arthur goes on to speak to all those gathered. "We'll sleep here. Take shelter in those trees," he says as he points toward them and then looks to one knight in particular.

"Tristan."

Without further explanation, for he needs none, Tristan looks to the hawk on his arm.

"You wanna go out again?" The hawk squawks in reply and Tristan nods. "Yeh." He throws his arm upward, giving the hawk momentum as she lifts off. Almost immediately, Tristan sends his horse galloping forward. He can almost feel a pair of dark eyes on him until he disappears beyond the snow and trees. Curiously, he finds himself hoping that they are not fixed in a glare.

He need not even have considered such a thought, however, because no matter how their last conversation had ended, she would not be able to glare at him right now. She knows, as well as any of the knights do, that with the enemy so close, he is in clear and constant danger.

No, there is no glare fixed upon him. Even the least observant of the knights catch the worry in her eyes, and they cannot help but wonder—as they watch him ride off as well—whether or not their own eyes betray such anxiety.

"Knights," Arthur begins, regaining everyone's attention. "Help the people to set up camp. They are unused to doing so. I will see that all of them know what the plan is."

Thus spoken, he rides off down the line passing along his orders from atop his horse.

Several hours later, it is dark and the makeshift camp is set up. The people, weary from travel, lie down to rest on the cold ground, many of them huddling closely together for warmth. The knights have scattered themselves throughout the encampment and are keeping watch.

Iseult, on the other hand, is undecided as to what she plans on doing with herself. She decides, after several moments of deliberation, that first she must check on Flanna.

Temporarily leaving Mairete's saddle with Jols, she walks toward where those from the estate are gathered. It is without much trouble that she finds Flanna; bright red hair does tend to stand out no matter how large the crowd.

Seeing the young woman sitting on the ground wrapped up in a blanket, she cannot keep from noticing how much more fragile and weak her young friend now looks. So much travel cannot be easy for her in her current condition. Without meaning to do so, her mind inadvertently wonders to rather dark questions: Would the woman survive the journey? Would she be one of the ones whom Tristan and Gawain had both seemed certain would perish?

She had already been in such poor condition before. Clearly, the journey had not been easy on her. Iseult stops far enough away that she remains unseen, yet close enough to observe the shiver Flanna tries to hide. The cough she chokes back. The shiver that finally manages to rack her tiny frame. The tiredness on her face.

In that moment, she turns around on her heel and walks in the opposite direction. Walking with purpose, she comes to the wagon the Roman woman and her son are occupying. Without much thought as to what she will say, she knocks on the wood of the wagon. A moment later, the Roman's wife appears at the door.

The woman's eyes widen slightly at the sight of Iseult. She had seen her earlier at the estate, especially when she had given up her horse so that one of the serfs, a heavily pregnant young woman, would not have to walk. She had automatically respected the warrior who was willing to walk if it meant someone not as well off as she would be cared for by her sacrifice.

A tall, female warrior. The woman can tell simply from looking at her that she is strong and proud, something she wishes she could be. She couldn't even stand up to her husband for herself. She had to have a Roman commander she did not know defend her instead.

"Ma'am," Iseult says in greeting while also trying to stall long enough for her to think of something to say.

The Roman woman nods in response, noticing the warrior woman's hesitation. Watching as she shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the woman gives her a small, reassuring smile.

Honestly, Iseult is not entirely sure what she had been thinking coming over here, but for some reason—based on how the Lady had tried to keep the girl and boy alive—she had felt that she should come to her.

"Do you need something?" the woman asks and Iseult snaps from her thoughts and decides that the most forward way would be the best.

"Yes… Not me, though. My friend. She is pregnant. The journey has been very difficult for her and she's very cold right now. Is there a blanket that you are not using which you could spare?"

Realizing that this female warrior can only be speaking of the pregnant serf, she is somewhat shocked. She had only met the girl earlier today and yet she already calls her 'friend'?

"Your friend?"

"Yes," Iseult answers, hesitating only a moment before she continues. "She is my friend. Her name is Flanna… She is one of your serfs."

The Roman nods before seeming to think about something. For a moment, she says nothing, but finally she glances around and then looks back to Iseult.

"My husband will not be sleeping in here tonight. He will sleep in his own wagon. It will only be my son Alecto and me in here," she says before pausing as if to assure herself that her decision is the right one. "If you will bring her, she may sleep in here with us."

At her words, it is Iseult whose eyes widen in surprise.

"I do not wish you inconvenienced."

"It is no inconvenience. Certainly considering what my husband has done to all of them, a night to sleep shielded from the snow and cold is not too much to give. The poor girl should not have to sleep out in the cold in her condition. We will not even notice. There is more than enough room for us and her as well."

A bit in awe of the woman now, Iseult bows slightly, then looks her dead in the eyes.

"Thank you, Lady."

The woman shakes her head. "My name is Fulciana, and yours?"

"Iseult."

"It is nice to meet you."

Iseult nods in reply before smiling. "And you."

Having thus spoken, she turns on her heel and walks off, back in the direction from where she came. Reaching her destination quickly, she sees her young friend with her arms wrapped as tightly around herself as is possible. The word 'fragile' comes to mind and she can't help thinking about what Tristan had said earlier about survival of the fittest.

She shakes her head, and, trying to channel her thoughts elsewhere, she reaches her friend and stands beside her.

"Hello, Iseult," Flanna greets, breaking into a smile as she looks up at her.

"Flanna," Iseult responds with a nod, a smile of her own threatening to appear. She holds her hand out to her. "Come. Walk with me."

Flanna grips her hand and Iseult helps her up. By the time she is up on her feet, she is winded. Iseult knows that the effort has tired her greatly, but she also knows that the end result will be worth it.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Aye. I'm fine."

Iseult holds her arm out to her and the young woman smiles gratefully as she places her hand in the crook of her arm for support. They begin walking in this manner, Flanna with one hand on Iseult's elbow, the other supporting her stomach; Iseult with one arm supporting Flanna, her free hand on the hilt of her sword.

Falling into silence, neither having anything to say, they simply walk together. The silence is neither uncomfortable nor awkward; it is simply silence.

Finally, Iseult glances over at Flanna and sees her frowning ever so slightly. Following her line of sight, Iseult sees why.

"Flanna," she says, getting her attention. "The Roman pig will trouble you no more. I assure you he will not."

She watches as the red-head's eyebrows draw together

"Marius willn't take well ta Arthur ordering him aroun'. Ya mark my words, Iseult. I know Marius, have seen what he can do first hand, an' I tell ya now: he will try something. He and his men _will_ try something, and I fear that it may end badly."

Iseult turns her head to look at the man and then to an area not that far away where Dagonet and the boy are preparing for sleep.

She frowns. They are too close. If any would be in danger, they would. Especially the boy.

This time it is Flanna's turn to follow Iseult's gaze, and when she does, she understands without asking why a dark shadow has fallen over her friend's face.

" 't might be a good idea for ya ta sleep o'er with them, Iseult."

The warrior stares a moment longer before nodding.

"I believe you may be right."

"Ya best go now or Dagonet will fall asleep before you can warn him."

She isn't sure what it is, but something in Flanna's voice makes Iseult turn to her. The petite woman's eyes are soft as she looks at the giant knight.

Iseult's soft chuckle causes Flanna to break off from whatever her thoughts had been to look at her.

"An' what would you be a laughin' at?" Flanna asks, frowning.

"Naught," she smiles, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Ya lie."

This time a laugh escapes her before she looks to Flanna seriously, yet still with a smile. "Why do you look at him so?"

The effect of her words is immediate as she sees the woman's skin color suddenly enter into competition with her flaming red hair.

"Now don't be a gettin' any crazy ideas in that head o' yours, Iseult. He's been kind ta me is all."

"Is it?" she asks, brown eyes sparkling as she stops by Fulciana's wagon. She knocks on the wagon and Flanna looks at her strangely. Why had Iseult brought her here?

A second later, the door opens to reveal Fulciana.

"Flanna, Fulciana has been kind enough to offer you a place in the wagon with her tonight. Her husband will be in his own wagon." Seeing Flanna's eyes widen in surprise, Iseult then looks to the Roman woman and smiles.

"Thank you for what you are doing. You are a kind woman. Do not let yourself feel guilty for that which your husband is responsible. You did what you could and saved two people. I believe you are a good person indeed. Thank you… Fulciana."

She almost thinks she sees the Roman's eyes get a little misty in the dim light, but just as quickly the woman blinks and looks to Flanna.

"Come, child. Let me help you inside."

Iseult assists Fulciana in helping Flanna inside and then takes a step back.

"Goodnight, Fulciana. Goodnight, Flanna."

Fulciana nods by way of reply, a kind smile on her face, whereas Flanna speaks.

"G'night, Iseult," she says but then remembers something, "And yes! 'tis all!"

The red-haired woman's words are met by naught but a gust of cold night air, carrying upon it, what might have been an amused chuckle before Fulciana shuts the door.

* * *

**So... Are you all terribly mad at me still? I really am sorry the space between updates has been so ridiculously long, but... c'est la vie. Unfortunately... TT^TT**

**Well, I hope that everyone enjoyed this chapter and that I can have the next one typed and posted soon. :)**

**~Kanae~**


	19. Lover

**I'm really sorry there's been another gap between updates. Not as bad as it was last time, yet it's still a bigger gap than what I would like for there to be... I really am sorry about it. Life is being ridiculous right now and I've been having to type this chapter little by little since the last update. :P**

**Anyway, I won't keep you all waiting any longer with a long author's note, but I would like to thank those of you who have continued reading despite my sporadic updates.**

**Thanks and I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

**Oh! And before I forget! A _HUGE _thanks to Dickonfan who corrected all sixty-three billion of my errors within this chapter... As I said, I was having to type in fragments and as a result, there were even more errors to correct than usual. TT_TT" But, thanks to her, you all do not have to read jumbled up thoughts and confused tenses. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**

* * *

Chapter 19: Lover

He catches movement out of the corner of his eyes just as he is about to lie down, and—recognizing the figure—props himself up on his elbows, watching her approach.

When he makes eye contact with her, he nods and she returns the gesture.

Upon reaching him, she sits down in front of him, feeling more than one pair of curious eyes on her.

She looks slightly behind Dagonet to the boy who holds her gaze for a moment before looking down. Seeing who she is looking at, the giant knight glances over his shoulder to the boy.

"Lucan," the knight says, his voice soft.

Immediately, the boy looks up and Dagonet continues.

"Lucan, this is Iseult. You remember her, don't you?"

They both watch as the boy's eyes return to Iseult and he squints as if trying to decide if he does or not. Having done so, he looks back to Dagonet and nods.

"It's good to see you again, Lucan," she states, giving the boy a gentle smile. "Are you feeling better?"

He nods once more, his hair falling into his face. Smiling, she slowly reaches across the space between them to gently brush his curly hair from his eyes. "You fight with unruly hair as I do, don't you, Lucan?"

Once more he nods and her smile broadens.

"I can't promise it will get any better but at the least it should keep you warmer during the winter," she says before looking to Dag and winking. "Dagonet, here, he doesn't have such hair and so he must simply freeze."

Her statement is accompanied by a final nod of her head as if she has just stated some great truth, the motion sending her own curls into disarray. With an exaggerated sigh, she reaches up and pulls her hair back into a ponytail.

"I'd trade with him."

Both Dag and Iseult blink at the boy in surprise before they both laugh, and slowly, a weak smile spreads across the boy's face.

Iseult once more reaches across, this time gently ruffling his hair, earning a laugh from the boy.

"I can see now you're a rascal, aren't you? Quick-witted. Yes. You'll be just fine, I believe."

Dagonet is unable to ignore that for once, her smile seems to reach her eyes, appearing to make her almost transformed. Much different from the battle-hardened warrior she is by day with everyone watching her. Right now, she is at ease. Clearly, her trust is not earned easily, and so he feels honored that she trusts him enough to be this different part of herself with him.

She looks up at him, the smile still in her eyes, and he cannot keep from returning the smile. He can definitely see what one reason might have been for Tristan befriending her so long ago. There's simply something about the woman no doubt. She just has this way about her that is puzzling, yet somehow compelling.

As the three fall into silence, his mind drifts to the matter of the scout. What is Tristan thinking? How can he treat one of his oldest friends as he has Iseult? True, it has been many moons since they have seen one another, but—were he in Tristan's position— that would only make him more determined to speak with her, to try to learn about her once more since his absence of so many long years.

The funny thing is that only once does Dagonet ever remember Tristan speaking of Sarmatia, and it had been the one time that he had even hinted of someone back in their homeland.

There had been a particularly bad battle that had claimed several great knights. Just as any other time such an event happened, the mood was dark and somber; many of the remaining knights had been in the tavern, drinking themselves into oblivion. Dagonet, being of the character he is, always avoided such binge drinking, finding it necessary to go around to the knights making sure that each was uninjured and not in any danger of being injured due to unclear or clouded thinking.

He had just managed to haul a thoroughly drunk Gawain back to his quarters only after narrowly avoiding the blond man starting a fight with a Roman soldier. On his way from Gawain's room, he had to pass Tristan's room to exit the knights' barracks, in order to return to the tavern.

As he came closer to Tristan's door, he saw that it was partially cracked. When he had seen this, he had stopped right in the middle of the hallway and stared at the door. To say the least, he was curious; after all, Tristan never under any circumstances had ever left his door open. The scout, with his dry sense of humor, had always pointed out that leaving one's door open usually meant one of the other knights would take that as an invitation to enter, sit, and talk which would lead to one thing: blood. This had always been said with such a straight face that Dagonet had never quite been able to decide whether his rather enigmatic brother-in-arms was joking or not.

Needless to say, the sight of the ajar door worried him. Had something happened? Had one of the Romans attempted something? His worries building with each thought that raced through his tired mind, he decided that he could not simply leave until he was certain that the scout was okay.

Upon approaching the door, he quieted his footfalls and started to lean forward to listen just long enough to dispel his fear; yet just as he had done so, the door opened fully to reveal a somewhat dishelved Tristan.

'Next time you are trying to eavesdrop on someone, you should walk more quietly. I heard you from the start of the hall,' the man had said, his same straight face in place, yet his voice held a slight slur to it, and Dagonet would have sworn that he could smell a greater amount of alcohol on the man's breath than was usual for Tristan.

Having taken slight offense to how his completely innocent motives had been skewed by his brother, he had frowned.

'I meant nothing by it.'

Tristan had looked at him with the same calculating stare he practices now when analyzing someone and then seemed to decide that he was telling the truth.

For a moment, the two had just stood in slightly awkward silence, neither really knowing what to say. Finally, Tristan had turned on his heel and walked back into his room, sitting in a chair by his window. Dagonet had looked back and forth between the scout and the door before he decided that he should leave.

Before he could turn to go, though, Tristan had spoken.

'Why were you listening?'

'I simply saw your door open and wished to make certain you were alright.'

'And if I had been _otherwise_ occupied?'

He had known without further elaboration what Tristan had meant. Many of the knights had frequent… encounters with the tavern women. He himself had not really participated in that aspect of life at the Wall, but he knew many did.

However, he had never seen Tristan leave with a woman. He would always beat Gawain and Galahad at knife-throwing, break up a fight or two, finish his drink, and leave. Nothing said, nothing implied. Just leave. Oftentimes, he wouldn't even say goodnight. He would simply be there one moment and gone the next.

'Tristan… Forgive me if I am overstepping, but I do not think I have ever seen you with a woman here at the Wall.'

A short humorless chuckle escapes from the scout's lips.

'Because I have not," he states. 'Many of the women here, they are cheap and vain. I have no use for such women.'

'Some of them are nice. Vanora, for instance.'

'Vanora is the exception,' Tristan answers, still staring out the window, not even sparing a glance at Dagonet.

A few more seconds passed and again, Dagonet was debating leaving when Tristan spoke again.

'What do you remember of home?'

For one stunned moment, Dagonet said nothing. Every one of the knights, even Arthur, knew that Tristan disliked speaking of Sarmatia. Whenever it was brought up, he would leave if he was able, and if he was not, he would simply ignore any questions thrown his way.

'Not much to be honest. Mostly my grandfather.'

'Grandfather?'

'He died a year before I left my village.'

'Hm.'

'…What do you remember?'

'Green hills… Horses running free over the hills… Learning to ride a horse for the first time and riding until I couldn't anymore…Climbing sturdy old trees that we would sit in for hours...'

Dagonet looked up at the scout with a puzzled look on his face at having heard one particular word.

'We?' Dagonet had asked, and then flinched. He had not meant to ask his mental question aloud.

In that instant, Tristan stiffened. He turned to look at Dagonet, his mask firmly in place.

'As you can see, Dagonet, I am uninjured. Perhaps you should continue on to one of the others.'

Dagonet had already checked everyone, but he took the words for what he knew them to be; Tristan was "politely" telling him to leave.

Without another word, he turned and left, making sure to shut the door firmly behind him.

He had never quite forgotten what Tristan had said that night. Had the 'we' he had spoken of been referring to himself and Iseult?

Forcing himself from his thoughts, he glances over his shoulder and smiles at the sight he sees. Lucan had finally fallen asleep. Barely moving, he turns just enough to pull up his armor a little to cover the boy as much as possible.

Having done so, the knight looks to Iseult whose gaze is directed elsewhere. Following her gaze merely out of habit, he sees that the objects of her piercing glare are Marius and the Roman guards. Unfortunately, Dagonet knows that she must have something on her mind, and a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He had seen them murmuring earlier amongst themselves just before Iseult had approached, but he had been unable to make anything of the low sound. His ears may not be quite as good as they had once been—over the years being affected by the shouts and clangings of battle. Judging by the look on Iseult's face, though, her ears are much better.

He places a gentle hand on her arm, and she turns to face him.

"What is it?" he asks quietly, his low voice barely heard even to her keen ears.

She realizes the Romans and their horrible master are watching, and she thinks quickly. Her back still to the Romans, she tries to warn Dagonet with a quick glance toward the guards. He realizes what she is telling him and looks to her for what to do.

Winking at him, she mouths for him to play along and waits for him to discreetly nod before she places a hand on her shoulder.

"Lover, your shoulders are so tense!" she exclaims, not overly loud, but loud enough that the Romans straining their ears to hear something can hear it.

Thankfully, Dag's surprise does not show; instead, he does as she has asked and plays along, silently hoping that Tristan is still out scouting.

The scout may not know what his feelings are regarding Iseult, but Dagonet is fairly certain that the scout's brother being in such relations with someone he at one time considered a friend would not end well for the brother involved. It does not in the least matter that Dagonet is a full four inches taller or that he is stronger-built than the lithe scout. He had learned that lesson several years ago back at the Wall when a few Romans had decided to attempt carrying out a vendetta against the scout by capturing something precious to him. It had not ended well for them either.

Once more having to force himself from his thoughts, he nods.

"It has been a long ride and this winter air does nothing to ease the matter."

"Why don't you turn so I can rub those shoulders of yours? Would that help, you think?"

"It might. You don't mind?"

"Not at all, Love. You know I help you any way I can," she replies, knowing full well what she has implied.

Dag turns quickly, feeling the blush start to creep up his neck. Yes, he very much hopes that Tristan is still out scouting, far out of earshot of such a remark.

Once he is situated, Iseult settles herself almost flush against his back, as close as she can be while still being able to rub his shoulders. She begins to do just that as she leans forward to whisper in his ear.

"Sorry, Dag. They were wary until I said that. Though, if I'd known you'd blush so, I might have thought of something else to say," she chuckles quietly.

"Did they notice?" he asks worriedly.

She shoots a discreet glance over her shoulder before replying to him.

"No, you turned in time. Aren't you glad none of the other knights are around, though?"

He chuckles as well, a rumble coming from deep in his chest. "I'd never live it down."

"No, I think you wouldn't."

"What was it you needed to tell me?"

"Marius is over there trying to rile the guards. He's not happy about the current situation."

"I thought as much. Did you catch any of what they were saying?"

"Not really. Just fragments, but it didn't sound very friendly toward Arthur or anyone else for that matter. Flanna told me she knows that Marius won't take Arthur ordering him around. She said that he will try something. She feared for you and the boy and asked me to sleep over here with the two of you tonight."

Dag's eyebrows furrow. The idea of Iseult—Tristan's 'once' best friend who happens to be a woman—for all practical purposes sleeping with him does not truly appeal to his common sense or decency. Despite pure motives, he is not thrilled about the idea.

"I am not sure that is such a good idea," he says, speaking most of his thoughts yet leaving _unless you want me dead_ entirely unvoiced. "Perhaps you could bring one of the other knights over," he suggests, but he knows as soon as he has said it that it will not work for the very reason Iseult mentions.

"Too suspicious. They'd know something was going on."

Dagonet sighs, finally admitting the issue. "Honestly, Iseult. I am uncomfortable with you sleeping over here."

Silence falls for a moment before he hears her snort.

"Dagonet… Are you concerned about… my honor?" she asks, a note of humor and incredulity in her voice. He can hear that she is trying to restrain laughter, obviously highly amused.

"That is one concern."

"And the other?" she questions, still having to hold her laughter in check.

'_Waking in the middle of the night with a knife to my throat_,' he thinks but shakes his head rather than speaking.

Seeing she will get no answer, she continues.

"I would sleep on the other side of the boy. If anyone tried anything tonight, they would very quickly realize their mistake. I sleep lightly."

He would swear that he can almost hear in her voice the wicked smirk that he knows must be on her face. He has no doubt that what she spoke was truth.

Still, he is not completely enthused with the idea, but knowing that having one of them on either side of Lucan would keep the boy safer, he hesitates for a moment, then nods.

"Alright," she says as she stops rubbing his shoulders and simply rests her hands there. She pauses for a moment before adding, "You know. I wasn't lying about your shoulder being stiff. Are they better now?"

She moves her hands, watching as he rolls his shoulders and blinks in surprise.

"Yes. Much. I didn't even realize they were so stiff. Thank you," he says as he turns to how he had been sitting earlier.

Smiling, she nods.

"I am glad I could help."

For a moment, they simply sit in companionable silence but upon Dagonet looking over at Iseult, he sees that she is staring at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

"What is it?"

"Thinking. I never did thank you," she replies. Seeing his puzzled look, she thinks of how to elaborate. "In the dungeon at the estate… Thank you."

She is unused to having to thank people and feels awkward in trying to do so, especially when it means explaining the reason she was thanking them. She really does not want to have to explain why she had reacted in the manner she did in the dungeon or how Dagonet being there and having his hand on her shoulder had comforted her when in the presence of such sights as they had beheld in the dungeon.

He nods. Though he is still uncertain as to what she is thanking him for, he will not push her for a clearer answer. He suspects that the result might be the same as when he had asked Tristan to whom 'we' referred. He does not expect an explanation, finding it enough to have been helpful.

"You are welcome."

She releases a harsh laugh, easily getting the attention of the Roman's and to cover her slip up, she leans forward as if sharing some intimate secret with—who the guards and the Roman think to be—her lover.

"Sorry. I was just suddenly struck with the notion that you haven't the slightest idea for what you are being thanked."

She leans back again, certain that the Romans' curiosity has been satisfied.

"You needn't tell me. It is enough to know that in some way I was of help to you."

At his words, they continue to hold eye contact, staring at one another. His is a complacent, comfortable gaze, but he cannot resist likening hers to that of Tristan when he is puzzled by something or other. Both she and the scout have an almost unnerving gaze which seems to penetrate through to one's soul, reading the depths of it.

After what seems an eternity, she simply nods understandingly, then stands and walks around to the other side of the sleeping boy. Carefully, so as not to wake Lucan, she sits down. Stretching out her legs sore from the long ride, she looks around once, assuring herself that the Romans are still where she had last seen them. Noting that they have not moved, she lies down, resting her head on her arm.

Following her example, Dagonet lies down as well, but not before discreetly checking the dagger tucked into his boot. Even as he closes his eyes and slowly allows himself to drift into sleep, he has a suspicion that he will need the weapon ere long.

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**So?... How is it? It's not too terrible, right?**

**I do have a question, though. How many of you laughed when you realized why the chapter title is what it is? ^_^**

**Well, I will try really hard to update again soon, but... I can't promise anything... I think I said this before, but I do have several chapters written, I simply have to find time to sit down and type them. **

**~Kanae~**


	20. Corpse

**Sorry it's been a little while since the last update. I was telling my BETA that Hectic had been replaced by his brother, Chaos and therefore writing was plentiful, time for typing was not... I do apologize for that though...**

**Hopefully, I will be able to update a little sooner than I have been. I really do hate not updating for extended periods of time...**

**Anyway, I hope this chapter is enjoyed, despite the wait... ^_^**

**

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Chapter 20: Corpse

Iseult had not slept well all night, nerves too high strung from threat of attack. This is not to say that she had not slept. She had, but it had been fleeting and troubled, plagued by nightmares and other such horrific imaginings as are left to the mind at night. In the end, she had been awake more often than not.

When the first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon line, she gave up on the idea of sleep entirely, but opted to stay lying down.

Even with her back to him, she knew that Dagonet had experienced no trouble sleeping, as evidenced by the occasional snore she had heard throughout the night.

Clearly, the past few days had exhausted the knight. He had been working tirelessly to help the boy and the young woman. Without his persistence, neither would have survived—of that much she is certain. The knight certainly deserves what rest he can find.

Debating whether or not she should stand—her bones are more or less frozen and stiff, the cold night air feeling as if it has seeped into them, and she can't help but think it will take quite a bit of stretching and walking to ever feel warm again—she stares out at where the sunlight is falling in patches on the snow and on the trees, creating an almost surreal scene. The snow sparkles with the new light and the trees seem to send a faint glow around them, as if the land itself is enchanted.

For a mere moment, she allows herself to admire the beauty of the view before her; yet just as she has decided to rise and prepare her horse, an entirely different chain of events unfold.

"Seize him!"

She gasps and turns just in time to see two of the Roman guards draw Dagonet into the snow. He wakes with a start. His surprise is evident, but in the blink of an eye, it has changed to anger. He manages to punch one guard while still on the ground but the other guard kicks him in the stomach, effectively knocking the breath from him.

"No!" the boy yells from beside her.

This reaction draws her from her shock and brings her to action.

Even as two of the guards grab Dag's arms and he continues struggling, she leaps to her feet and springs forward, tackling another guard to the ground.

As she rolls back to her feet, she looks at Dag only long enough to assure herself he is alright—the two Roman guards stumbling backwards is proof enough that he is—and then she pulls a knife from the top compartment of her boot.

Another of the Roman guards draws a knife as well and advances on her. As soon as she gets a good look at his face, she recognizes him, and an angered snarl rips from her throat. Judging by the look on his face, he recognizes her as well.

It is the same man whom she had kept from hitting Flanna just yesterday.

Even as she hears another blade being drawn, she only sends the fleetest of glances back to see that it is Dagonet who has drawn his dagger and not another of the guards.

Despite how quickly she had glanced over her shoulder at him, she knows the short fray has tired him. She had noticed he had been practically gasping for breath and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders if perhaps the guard's previous kick to his ribs had actually caused damage.

Before she can even attempt to step her way back to Dagonet and tightening their defenses, she catches movement from the corner of her eye and looks. Even as she takes in the scene, maniacal laughter fills the air.

"I have the boy!"

"Lucan!" Iseult cries upon seeing the knife at the boy's throat. Why hadn't she stayed with him? Dag could have taken care of himself. Lucan could not.

Iseult's slight hesitation is not missed by the guard. He recognizes the opportunity and knocks the knife from her hand, seizing her, one arms barred across her shoulders, right at the base of her neck, the other holding a knife to her throat. Iseult immediately freezes and curses herself inwardly for such an error.

Dagonet stands ready but uncertain as his eyes dart between the guards he is facing, Iseult, and Lucan, and he knows he has been quite effectively stopped.

Had Iseult not been captured, it would have been a small matter for him to have easily taken care of the Roman and save Lucan while she took care of the guards. With her and Lucan hostages, however, his hands are tied. He can do nothing but watch and wait for an opening.

"Kill him," Marius tells the guards, indicating Dagonet.

"No don't!" yells a voice, and both Dag and Iseult watch helplessly as Fulciana tries to tackle her husband. "Let him go!"

Without effort, Marius shoves his wife down and looks to the guards who are hesitating, staring between Fulciana and Marius.

The guards glance to each other, faltering even as an arrow pierces Marius's chest, missing Lucan by mere inches. In shock, Marius freezes and looks down to the arrow sprouting from his chest as though it were some lethal flower.

Spinning, Dagonet sees Guinevere approaching, a bow in her hand as she walks, already notching another arrow.

As Marius begins to fall, his grip loosens and Lucan runs to Dag who pick him up and slings him behind him, throwing his dagger down to the boy. In one smooth motion, he transitions from this action to pulling his sword and facing the Romans once more, this time focusing his gaze on the guard holding the knife to Iseult's neck.

Though his intention had been only to look at the guard, his attention is instead caught by Iseult who makes eye contact with him. What startles him is that there is no fear in her eyes, only determination. But for what?

Seeing that she had caught his attention, she looks down and then back up to him once more. She repeats the action and it does not take much for Dagonet to realize that she is doing just as Tristan had done in the forest before, signaling him to look at something.

He discreetly does so and his shock almost betrays him and her.

Iseult had been slowly raising an arm to her waist without so much as twitching her shoulder… and now she holds a shiny knife in her hand.

She looks at him with a defiant gleam in her eyes, and he really isn't sure what she plans on doing with the knife but then, in one smooth motion, she grabs the guard's arm. In the blink of an eye, the knife is buried in the guard's side, and she has flipped his grip from her, letting him fall with a dead thud to the ground.

Retrieving her knife, she casually walks to Dagonet's side, positioning herself to take on another guard should the need arise and stares at them expectantly.

Within moments, Iseult is aware of Bors riding into the clearing, ax in hand and yelling 'Artorius!' before stopping behind the guards.

"Do we have a problem?" he almost growls. "Huh?"

Arthur, who Iseult has just realized is standing with Excalibur drawn and pointing at the guards, speaks.

"You have a choice. You help or you die."

The main guard quickly drops his sword, followed by a second.

"Put down your weapons," the guard orders. "Do it now!"

"Hyah!" Dagonet readies his sword and shouts, a warrior sound which warns of bloodshed to come.

The guards hear Dagonet's yell, all weapons seem to drop instantaneously. Arthur nods to Jols who had also appeared without Iseult's noticing, so intent had she been on watching for trouble. Jols, understanding Arthur's gesture, immediately begins retrieving the discarded weapons.

The loud neighing of a horse catches everyone's attention and they turn to see Tristan riding toward them from the deep woods, some wooden contraption slung over his shoulder.

"How many'd you kill?" Bors asks the returning scout.

"Four," was the winded reply.

Bors laughs darkly, "Not a bad start to the day."

Iseult watches as Tristan, horribly exhausted and out of breath[,] throws the wooden machine down at Arthur's feet, revealing it to be a crossbow.

"Armor-piercing. They're close. We have no time."

"You ride ahead," Arthur instructs him.

Even from here, Iseult can see the nearly vacant look in the scout's eyes. Clearly, he had gone without sleep for far too long and was weary to the bone. Dark circles framed his usually clear, ever observant eyes, adding an almost haunted appearance to his expression, as if he were a corpse.

As he turns his horse to leave, Iseult cannot suppress a shiver. Dagonet gently puts an arm around her shoulders, mistaking her shivered premonition for simple cold.

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**So did the chapter make up for the wait, even a little bit?**

**As always, I'd love to hear...erm... read what you all think. :)**

**~Kanae~**


	21. Women

**Greetings, Strangers. I hail from the planet of Computer crashes and Chaos.**

**But on a serious note. I am back with this story and I have every intention of completing it. :)**

**Shortly, it might do well to review the prior chapters. As with my Amethyst story, I have decided to revise past chapters (not for plot but for quality) and several paragraphs will have been added in here and there whenever something occurs to me. I will probably post a note with the next chapter whenever I post it that the chapters have been revised and reposted, but until then, I hope this long delayed chapter is enjoyed, and I must thank my wonderful beta who helped so much with this chapter to get me back into the King Arthur mindset. **

**~Kanae~**

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Chapter 21: Women

As they travel, Tristan periodically reappears to report to Arthur, each time appearing the worse for wear. Iseult is unsure if this is due to lack of sleep or that he has encountered Saxon scouts in some of his forays ahead of the caravan. Each time, she worries a little for him. Beyond that, she wants to talk to him again, to see if she can clear the air from their earlier conversation at Marius' estate. The opportunity never affords itself, though, so she can only watch as he appears, speaks to Arthur, and is sent out again.

Occasionally during the somber trek across snow-covered landscape, she is able to speak to Gawain or Dagonet, but that becomes more and more rare as they progress.

She watches the snowy scenery carefully, in a heightened state of intensity, trying to discern any possible threats to the long trail of people, animals, and wagons. However, none appear as they follow the winding path Tristan had recommended to Arthur.

At long last, they emerge at a wide-open plain of ice. It is the frozen lake she overheard Tristan mention to Arthur, one of the few times she had been close enough during his report.

And there is Tristan.

As she has been traveling closer to the end of the line, Arthur and the other knights reach the scout first, but she quickly follows, arriving just in time to hear Tristan say, "No. We have to cross the ice."

His voice is so quiet, calm. She knows by this, that either he is confident in the safety of crossing or, more likely, he is simply resigned to the danger of it.

There is the slightest pause before Arthur speaks.

"Get them out of the carriages. Tell them to spread out."

The command immediately starts everyone filtering out of the carriages and everyone on horseback dismounting from their trusty but tired steeds. Once accomplished, they all stand at the edge of the ice, staring across it, many with no small amount of trepidation. Now awaits the uncertainty. Just one bit of misplaced weight, just one wrong step onto ice that is thinner or weaker than the rest and all can be lost.

"Let's go," Arthur distractedly orders after a moment. He, too, is thinking of the risk, praying to his God that everyone survives the crossing. This journey cannot be entirely for nothing, yes? Surely God must have some bigger plan or purpose than for all to perish here when they have already traveled so far!

With his words, Arthur and his knights as well as Iseult, Horton, and Jols lead their horses forward ahead of all the others, warily watching the ice as they do so. The bravest souls follow the knights next, with those remaining left to follow behind them, carefully tracing their path.

Iseult pays the ice only half a mind at the moment, however. Quite frequently, her thoughts wander from the current predicament to certain people; Flanna, Lucan, Fulciana, but more than any other, to Tristan. More often than not, in fact, her eyes drift from the treacherous ice to him.

She wants to speak to him. She _has_ to speak to him. Their last conversation had ended so badly and the Saxons are close, too close. What if the Saxons did catch up to them? What if she or Tristan… She couldn't die or let him die without him knowing that despite his words or her pain, she does not and could never hate him.

Though he is near the lead and she is a bit farther back, she is troubled enough that she gazes at him with a steadfastness that _should_ be directed at the ice, where his eyes are focused.

As a result of this uncharacteristic inattention, she is more than slightly startled when the ice begins to crack. Cursing softly, she immediately tries to calm her horse to prevent it from bucking and further upsetting the delicate balance of weight.

"Shhh. Mairete, it will be alright. Shh."

The horse settles without much more protest and only whinnies, nervously eyeing the ever-growing cracks in the ice. Once she has calmed her, Iseult immediately scans the group to assure herself that everyone is still safe.

In doing so, she sees Fulciana and Flanna, Alecto between them, supporting them both. She sees Dagonet and Bors glance nervously between each other and the ice. She sees many faces of the villagers, almost all looking afraid. Lastly, she sees Arthur give the signal to stop, which instantaneously causes all movement, all noise to cease save for the creaking of the ice and a noise that freezes everyone to the marrow. From the initial, terrible silence is born the steady beat of Saxon drum.

Urged forward by the death knell, all begin to walk once more, only to be greeted by more groaning ice, causing them to pause again.

Glancing to her right at Dagonet, she sees that the tall knight has a grim, almost imperceptible upturn to his mouth, almost as if he is darkly amused and at last ready to submit to whatever Fate may hold in store.

"Knights… ?" prompts Arthur, looking around to them for input.

He refuses to decide this for them when so much has already been decided despite their wishes. Indeed, Tristan and other knights had told him this would happen if they went on this mission, if they stayed to wall up the insane priests, if they brought the villagers along with them. Rome and he had already decided so much for them, and now he will let them choose There is a slight chance that, even over the ice, they can outrun the Saxons, make it across and then double speed, but the chance of succeeding is infinitesimal. He will, however, attempt it all the same if that is what they choose.

"Well, I'm tired of runnin'," Bors states, "and these Saxons are so close behind, my arse is hurting."

Iseult watches as Arthur turns to Tristan next. For the briefest moment, the brown-eyed man meets Iseult's gaze. His eyes, the one chip in his mask, look resigned and yet defiant, and she knows his answer before he even looks to Arthur. "Never liked looking over my shoulder anyway."

She almost wants to laugh at the statement. When she had known him from childhood in their village, there were very few times anyone had ever _purposely_ chased Tristan. Very few people had ever been crazy enough to even _consider_ it. Iseult cannot help but find herself think that, truly, the Saxons are either mad or unaware of whom they pursue.

"Here. Now," Dagonet answers firmly, pulling her from her thoughts.

Arthur briefly looks to Lancelot and then to Iseult who nods once. "It is time to face them."

With a nod, Arthur turns. "Jols!"

The man called instantly begins the preparations for the approaching fight.

As this begins, Iseult knows she must speak now or risk speaking never. None too carefully, as she disregards the ice, she walks toward Tristan. Again, she knows that—within the first few steps—he sees her approaching him. His awareness is told in the slight tensing of his jaw, neck, and shoulders, the way he busies himself with inspecting arrows that he knows are perfectly ready. Despite this distancing reaction, however, she will not allow him to discourage her. She must talk with him and he must listen to what she has to say.

Stopping nearly three feet from him, she speaks his name.

"Tristan."

He ignores her in favor of continuing his needless review. He does not give the slightest indication he has heard her, but, unlike her, he is never so lost in thought as to not observe his surroundings.

Frowning, she takes another two steps forward, now no more than a foot from him.

"_Tristan_," she repeats, this time more assertively.

After a moment of hesitation, he looks up from his arrows.

His eyes almost pierce her very soul. Held in them is a very strong fire that seems to sear her skin, turning it aflame even in the cold. She cannot place what lies behind the eyes that so strongly affects the usually stoic man. It may be fear or even anger for all she can decipher, but she does know that it is one of the most open and honest expressions she has ever seen in his eyes. As a result, the intensity of the sudden contact causes her to do nothing but stare at him, trying to name what she sees.

"Iseult," he says at last, pulling her from her trance. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it, she continues.

"Tristan, before this all goes downhill, I have to tell you something."

"You should be preparing," he replies flatly, returning his attention to his quiver of arrows.

"This _is_ preparing," she retorts quickly, forcing her voice to remain as calm and passive as his voice. "I don't know whether or not you have thought about it or if you even care, but I have to tell you something. It's about earlier, at that Roman monster's estate, when we… talked…" The warrior woman notices the slight flinch that anyone else, except maybe Dagonet, would have assigned to a shift in the lighting. "Just because I disagree with your words does not mean that I do not wish to speak to you anymore." He pauses his inspection—hand hovering over the next arrow— unmoving and unwilling to meet her gaze. Knowing that he is still listening, though, she continues. "And just because what you said hurt… that does not mean that I hate you or am disappointed or anything else. I—"

"Iseult," Jols' voice calls from slightly behind her.

She turns and sees the man just as he reaches her.

"Yes?"

"Your equipment is ready beside Dagonet."

She nods. "Very well. Thank you." Returning her attention to Tristan, she sighs. He is staring at her expectantly, perplexed and waiting for her to clarify whatever she is talking about, but suddenly, she's not sure if she can continue what she wants to say. Not right now anyway. Not before what is soon to come.

No. She can tell him later that she could never hate him. That she could never so much as even be cross with him. That regardless of how he has treated her until this point, she still wants to renew their friendship, try to pick up the pieces from where they had shattered so many years ago.

"I… Just… Survive this and I'll continue what I was saying once we return to the wall," she blurts out before turning on her heel and retreating to her weaponry.

He watches as she walks away from him, and he would readily admit that he is almost entirely bewildered. Maybe it is fatigue that is making him have difficulty understanding and processing; maybe it is just that her words were unexpected. Maybe it is even a combination of the two, but regardless, he is indeed confused.

When she first approached, he had hoped—had prayed to whatever was out there—that she was only walking past him. After the conversation that had happened at Marius' estate, after seeing _that look_ in her eyes, he did not want to talk to her. Surely he had already disappointed her enough for the present.

Besides, he did not wish to talk to her, to see that look again, before dying, as he is certain this confrontation will be the last. It is his fault, after all, that she is here. Had he but died sooner, she would not be on this suicide mission. She would be in Sarmatia once more or, at the least, back at the Wall.

If nothing else, it is his fault she is here because he did not try hard enough to keep her at the Wall. Secretly—kept even from himself—he had wanted her to come along with them. He had _wanted_ his childhood friend there. It was selfish and self-serving, but if he could choose, he would want her near when he fell, a last reminder of the home he had been forced to leave behind him. From that, even without his recognition, he had not tried as hard to talk her down, had not fought her quite as well as he could have. He realized in that moment that he had _allowed_ her to accompany them, and in realizing this, he hated himself.

He had killed her.

These blames he has placed upon himself may or may not be accurate, but facing death, he needed something, someone to blame for her presence and he found himself as fine a target as any.

Even as he berated himself, he realized that she had not passed him, but had instead stopped near him.

When she first spoke his name, he ignored her, hoped she would leave him, yet she did not. She had simply repeated his name in such a way as told that she certainly would not just leave, and so he slowly had looked up and met her gaze. In doing so, however, he knew he had betrayed himself to her at last. Meeting her eyes, his thoughts were not under control as they should have been. So distracted and agitated was he that he had not hidden his thoughts of self-hatred and remorse. She had always told him his eyes were too honest for him, and he knew she could read them better than anyone.

How much she had seen in them, he could not guess, but it was enough to leave her speechless and staring at him in an odd mix of surprise and, if he read her correctly, _concern_. They had stood there simply staring at one another until he had prompted her to speak again wherein she admitted he had hurt her, badly perhaps—though she would never say that to him—yet she said she does not hate him? She is not angry with him? How? Why? And what had she almost said before Jols interrupted?

Then she tells him, in essence, not to die so that they may speak after the encounter? Speak of what? Why must she be so cryptic and confusing? Could she not simply come out and say what she had been about to say and _then_ walk to her weapons?

_Women_.

Sighing and shaking his head, he brings his thoughts back to what is soon to happen. For now, he must focus on surviving and making sure all of the others do as well.

With this thought in mind, he readies arrow to bow and waits.

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**Well, I hope that this chapter was enjoyed, despite the wait for it. Thank you, especially to anyone who has stuck with this. :)**

**~Kanae~**


	22. Battle on the Ice

**Another chapter in a decent span of time and a very fateful chapter for one knight. Anyway. I would like to say thank you again to my wonderful, wonderful Beta. It's thanks to that very dedicated and amazing individual that this chapter has turned out as well as it has. **

**Hope you enjoy.**

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Chapter 22: Battle on the Ice

They stand for what seems an eternity, facing toward the direction of the steady drumbeat. The caravan had finally disappeared from their sight and they remain, standing in a straight line, hearing the ever-increasing volume of the drums. They wait, watching the narrow strip of ice where they know the Saxons must enter.

The first line of Saxons appears and begins to spread out into ranks.

Iseult, standing ready with bow and arrow primed, watches them with no small amount of dread. They spread over the ice like a plague, bringing death to all they touch.

"Hold until I give the command," says Arthur in a clear, measured voice.

Glancing down the line past Gawain and Galahad, past Arthur and Guinevere, past Lancelot, Iseult sees Tristan. His focus is entirely on the enemy and she prays that it remains there.

Again turning, she looks up to Dagonet's face. He wearing an odd expression, as though somehow he knows something that no one else does, and it worries her.

'… _always thought of his brothers first—"_

She shakes her head, cutting off the voice. That cannot begin again now. Let her madness besiege her at some later time; for now, she must focus.

Looking up to Dagonet again, she feels oddly uneasy, almost as if her very soul is fluttering in dread, in sorrow. It does not make sense to her. She has fought many times, many times thinking that meeting Death would be a certainty, but this is somehow different… Something is bothering her and she cannot place it.

Perhaps feeling her gaze, the towering knight turns and looks down to her. Meeting her gaze, the look in her eyes unnerves him. Why does she stare at him in such a manner? In an attempt to push the matter away, he attributes it to fear of the oncoming battle—though if he was to think further on it, he would know that his answer does not make sense—and gives her a grim, closed lip smile.

Hesitantly, she responds in kind, adding a slight nod before quickly turning forward once more. Dagonet is puzzled, yet returns his own attention to the Saxon threat.

Not a moment later, a Saxon archer releases an arrow from his crossbow and they all watch it ascend, only to fall halfway to the knights' position and skitters harmlessly across the ice. They see the Saxon leader, a bald man with bulky armor, turn angrily to the archer.

"I believe they're waiting for an invitation," Arthur comments idly, and Iseult can almost hear a darkly amused note in his voice. "Bors. Tristan."

Even as the two named ready arrow—or in Tristan's case _arrows_—to bow, Guinevere interjects. "They're far out of range."

Iseult cannot restrain a smirk as she once more glances down the line toward Tristan, who she sees has nocked more than one arrow. Obviously the girl does not know of what she speaks.

The arrows are loosed, arcing perfectly into the gray sky and descending upon their hapless victims with lethal accuracy. Four Saxons fall.

Before the achievement can be celebrated, however, the Saxon ranks advance.

Arthur's voice reaches their ears again. "Aim for the wings. Make them cluster."

Now it is time for everyone to contribute. All those in the single line prepare their bows and draw back their strings. A breath later and more Saxons fall to the ice. The action is repeated again and again. Each time, the oncoming force bunches together just a little more, wanting to get as far away from either end as possible, and with the redistribution of weight, the ice begins to creak and groan and crack.

For those few moments, it seems as though the Saxons might be their own undoing, but then the Saxon leader forces them back into their lines.

"It's not going to break. Back," orders Arthur, drawing his sword. "Fall back. Prepare for combat!"

Abandoning whatever spare weapons lie in front of them, they back up and ready their main weapons.

Iseult throws her bow back into the snow behind her and unsheathes her sword, eyes focusing on the Saxons. Out of her peripheral vision, however, she sees movement to her left. Glancing at Dagonet from the corner of her eye, she watches as his jaw sets and an expression comes over his face that only worsens the feeling she had experienced earlier.

Even as she discreetly stares, she can almost see something finally break within the man and he drops his sword, scoops up his axe, and runs toward the Saxon line with a great bellow.

"Dag!" exclaims Bors.

"Cover him!" Arthur shouts.

'—_that's how he died, you know. He saved us—'_

In the blink of an eye, Iseult tosses her own sword and rushes after him, not even slowing as she bends to lift her shield from where it had been left with her spare weapons. Eyes on Dagonet as he swings his axe down onto the ice, she runs as fast as she can, ignoring the loud creaking under her feet.

"Iseult!" yells Gawain, voice between shock and panic.

Hidden in Gawain's yell, she almost swears she hears _his_ voice also, but she cannot turn to look. She must keep running. She must help Dagonet. She must help the man who has already become more family to her than she has ever had before in her life.

The first arrow to hit him embeds itself in his leg just before she reaches him.

Heart racing, chest heaving, she throws her shield-covered arm in front of him just as another arrow would have pierced his chest.

He gives her the briefest glance before swinging again, and she focuses on shielding the two of them as best she can from the arrows.

One arrow grazes Dagonet's arm, another skims the side of her right leg. She knows she can only keep this up for so long, but the ice is beginning to fracture and the fractures are quickly branching farther across the ice.

She talks urgently to him, speaking encouraging words that she knows she will never remember later—if there is a later—and keeps an eye on the enemy, moving or shifting the shield as necessary.

Just as she begins to feel hopeful, though, she at last misjudges. Leaning slightly more in front of Dagonet, her back slightly to the enemy, and arrow pierces her left shoulder, causing her to cry out in pain. The sound distracts Dagonet who—healer that he is—quickly looks to her. In that moment, from shock, her arm falls just barely and another arrow plunges into Dagonet's abdomen. The bolt of pain that strikes him is enough that he drops to his knees and must lift himself to his feet again even as Iseult raises her shield, ignoring the excruciating pain in her shoulder.

"Once more, Dagonet!" she exclaims, noticing how close the ice is to breaking.

He gives her a determined nod, too winded, pained, and exhausted to verbally reply. Mustering his strength, he swings one last time with a mighty yell and the ice gives way. At last entirely drained of his strength and energy, he begins to tip forward, axe falling to the ice. Iseult, seeing this, throws herself forward, her good shoulder hitting his chest, thereby counterbalancing the motion.

Dropping her shield, she instead braces him, draping one of the giant knight's arms across her shoulders and begins back to their line. Hearing the ice cracking, she hurries as much as she can, at times Dagonet able to stumble alongside her and take some of the weight off, at times she quite nearly has to drag him. With every breath that she must support his weight, the pain in her leg and shoulder intensifies, yet through her pain, she talks to him almost frantically, trying to keep him conscious and focused.

At almost half of the way to their own line, some of the weight is suddenly lifted from her aching shoulders. Looking up from the ice and over Dagonet who is nearly doubled over in pain, she meets Arthur's determined gaze.

"Iseult, I can take him," says a voice to her left. Seeing Bors ready to take the weight from her, she allows him to do so, knowing that he and Arthur will be able to get Dag to solid ground more quickly than she. Following just slightly behind them, she occasionally glances over her shoulder at the ice as it breaks and capsizes, plunging those standing on the chunks into frozen water even as the knights remaining on the land continue to shower them with arrows.

Reaching safety on land, the broken ice at last leaving an insurmountable line of defense between the Saxons and themselves, Bors and Arthur help Dagonet to sit down and begin to examine the damage. Dagonet, somewhere between being conscious and not, is muttering almost incoherently, only a few words distinguishable.

"Horse? What about 'is horse?" questions Bors, looking around at the others present and hoping for an answer. "Why is 'e concerned with his horse right now?"

After a moment, Iseult remembers back to the first day of their mission and she walks wordlessly to Dagonet's horse. One-handedly, she lifts a bag from the creature's back. Returning, she glances at Tristan and quickly wishes she hadn't. He looks furious.

Stopping in front of Bors, Dagonet, Arthur, she sets the leather bag down and kneels with some difficulty, her grazed knee protesting the motion.

Her left arm kept purposely limp and loose at her side—further tightening her muscles with the arrow's shaft still present would not only worsen the pain but also possibly worsen the damage—she opens the pack with her right hand. Carefully removing a clean cloth and the same bottle Dagonet had used to clean her wounds, she looks to Bors.

"We need to remove the arrows, clean and bandage as best we can here, and then get him back to the caravan."

"Right 'ere?"

"The sooner it is done, the less chance there is for infection."

Bors looks to Arthur who seems uncertain, overwhelmed. Iseult does not know for how long they might have simply stared at one another, indecisive, had the one concerned not spoken.

" 's right. Hav' to," Dagonet croaks, voice strained. He reaches up and, fumbling a little, loosens his armor and his shirt enough for someone to be able to work.

Arthur nods to Bors who is still staring at him for answer and Bors immediately thereafter looks to Dagonet.

"Alright, Dag… I'm goin'ta get the arrow out then…"

The other knight nods, bracing for the action. Without being told, Iseult stands and moves back from them.

She watches as Arthur holds the feathered end of the arrow and Bors grips the other end closest to Dagonet's back with one hand, the other hand at the arrowhead. In the blink of an eye, without warning, Bors snaps the arrowhead off and Arthur carefully, but promptly, pulls out the remainder of the arrow. The knight almost screams but restrains the sound and instead merely grits his teeth and holds his breath a moment before they move to the next arrow in his leg.

Iseult is so distracted watching that she almost jumps when a calloused hand grips her right hand and lifts it to her left shoulder where an arrow is currently lodged.

"Hold," the familiar voice instructs quietly by her ear.

She immediately grips the arrow as he tells her and she feels his hand on her back near the base of the arrow, holding it steady. A moment later, she hears a snap and then he is standing in front of her.

"Move your hand."

His voice seems distant, maybe even a little cold.

Again, she does so and he places one hand on her shoulder, holding it firmly in place as he grips the arrow, quickly glances at her, and then pulls out the arrow, perhaps even more skillfully than Arthur had done for Dagonet. Nonetheless, the sudden flare of pain is agonizing enough that her knees give out on her and for the briefest instant she loses consciousness.

The next thing she is aware of, her forehead is resting on Tristan's shoulder and he is supporting her. Returning to herself and finding her strength again, she stands and he releases her. Yet, there is a slight hesitancy in his doing so that goes unnoticed by all, including Iseult.

She will not catch him this time, however. Returning his eyes to forced indifference—his only defense to what he had almost watched happen—he levels his stare at her.

"Another two fingers' breadth to your right and you would have died. That was a careless mistake."

Thus spoken, he walks to his horse and mounts before looking toward the group—pointedly keeping his eyes away from _her_—and addressing his comrades.

"I will ride ahead and inform one of the wagons to hold until you arrive," Tristan says, looking to Arthur for approval.

Arthur nods once. "Tell them to ready everything necessary."

With nary a word, Tristan turns his horse and then urges it forward, quickly riding away from them. He cannot but notice as he does so that, for some unknown reason, his eyes are stinging.

* * *

**So, is anyone else happy that Dagonet survived? I am. He is such an awesome character. :) **

**Hope to have the next chapter up soon. **

**~Kanae~**


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